


Revenge!

by Buckeye01



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Explosions, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Revenge, Shooting, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: Captain Tréville and Athos are kidnapped by a sadistic former Musketeer seeking revenge for the loss of his leg. This man is ruthless and will stop at nothing until he satisfies his thirst for vengeance. Will the remaining Inseparables be able to save their captain and their brother, Athos, in time?





	1. The Hostages

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Dear Readers!  
> Can you believe I haven't posted a story since May, but I have been a busy bee. I just finished my first Young Adult novel; it has been read/reviewed/scrutinized by 3 wonderful readers; I have edited/rewritten/deleted unnecessary parts/edited again… well, you get the gist. This new story was a welcome break from my original work! I actually started this chapter back in May, but put it on hold to work on my book.
> 
> This story takes place sometime in S2. I hope that you all enjoy!

Revenge is a dish best served cold.  
Klingon Proverb, Star Trek II, The Wrath of Kahn

*****

“Hurry up and hide, damn you,” Philippe yelled. “Someone’s coming!”

The three bandits hid behind large trees, waiting until the two horsemen were just in front of their location before jumping out onto the road with guns drawn.

“Hold it right there! Where you off to in such a hurry, eh?” Gerard cackled as he pointed his loaded pistol at the horsemen. “Why don’t I see what you’re carrying on you.” 

“Take it easy,” said one of the riders. “You are welcome to our money, though we are not carrying much. We are on official business for the king; we do not want any trouble.”

“Oh, you’re already in trouble,” Gerard said, grinning. The bandit pulled the hammer back on his pistol and aimed it at the horseman’s chest. The man nodded approvingly as his companions trained their muskets on the second horseman. “How about you both get down from your horses—that’s not a request. If you try anything sneaky, we’ll shoot you both dead before. . .”

“Holy hell,” Philippe cried out, cutting off his companion mid-sentence. “Do you know who we have here, Gerard? We have ourselves some Musketeers!”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gerard laughed, “looks like we just struck it rich, boys. We just held up some Musketeers.”

“Look, we’re not carrying anything of value,” said one horseman. “We have nothing on our persons that would interest you, gentlemen.”

“Mon Dieu,” gasped the third bandit as he stepped from the shadow of the trees. “These men are more than just Musketeers! My friends, we have here the captain of the Musketeers and his ever-loyal lieutenant; I present to you, Captain Tréville and Athos, Comte de la Fère.”

“How do you know so much, Jean-Marc?” Gerard asked, as he continued aiming his pistol at the horseman. “Just how do you know these boys, eh?”

“I know these men because I used to be one of them. Remember me, Captain?” Jean-Marc snarled angrily. “I’ve been waiting for this day for four long years. . . and, by God, here you are. This is better than my finest expectations. Oh, I’m going to have fun with the two of you!”

“Jean-Marc, you filthy thief,” Captain Tréville spat. “I thought you fled to England with the gold you stole from His Majesty.”

“Stole from His Majesty?” Jean-Marc growled. “That money was due me; I was owed that money! The king and his Musketeers cost me my leg; I swore then and there I would seek compensation from His Majesty. I paid a heavy price and, well, today is payday.”

~~§~~

**The Garrison:**

“Bloody heat!” Porthos growled, as he took his handkerchief to wipe his sweaty brow. The summer sun burned in the mid-afternoon sky, scorching the dusty garrison courtyard. The large Musketeer took a long drink of cold water, then poured the rest over his head. He shook the excess water from his dark curly hair before replacing his floppy hat. “What time did the cap’n say he and Athos would return from Versailles?” 

“They said they would be back before dinner time,” d’Artagnan replied. The Gascon shielded his eyes as he glanced up at the blazing sun, noting its location. “It looks to be about two in the afternoon, I’d say. They still have a few hours yet, Porthos.”

“We still need to finish trainin’ the new recruits, but this heat has drained away my energy; I want to do nothin’ but sleep,” Porthos grumbled. 

“I’m too tired to move. . .” d’Artagnan replied sleepily. The young Musketeer draped himself across the top of the picnic table and rested his head on his outstretched arm. “I think I’ll take a nap.” 

Aramis frowned as he studied the sleepy, young Musketeer. He watched as a droplet of sweat ran from the Gascon’s brow then dripped onto the table. “Come on, little brother, up we go,” the medic said, as he pulled d’Artagnan upright. “We had better finish our work before the captain gets back, which is only a few hours. I think moving around will do us all some good.”

“If I don’t get up now, I never will,” Porthos said, yawning. “Let’s finish wit’ the recruits so we’ll be done when the cap’n comes back.” Suddenly, a bright smile spread across the large man’s face as a thought came to mind. “When Athos gets back, we can quench our thirst at the Wren, since we don’t ‘ave to work tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Aramis said, as he clapped his two brothers on the back. “Let’s get to work then, shall we?”

*****

“You make one move for that pistol, lieutenant, I’ll blow your captain’s head off,” Jean-Marc threatened as the two Musketeers dismounted. “Now, slowly, put your hands up in the air where I can see them.”

“You won’t get away with this, Jean-Marc,” Captain Tréville snarled. The Musketeers stood with their shoulders touching, glaring defiantly at the bandits. “I’m the one you have an issue with, Dubois, let Athos go.”

“No, I have an issue with Athos too,” said Jean-Marc. “I should have been your lieutenant, Tréville; I should have been your second-in-command, not this drunkard! I had more years of experience than this former comte did. How much did he pay you for the position, Captain? That was _my_ promotion that your drunkard _stole_ from me! I am going to take from you _everything_ that you took away from me; I am going to make you pay!”

“After you lost your leg, Jean-Marc, your career as a Musketeer was over and I’m truly sorry for that,” Tréville countered. “But the attack on your team was unexpected; no one is to blame. As a Musketeer, you knew this job was dangerous, but you agreed to that risk when you swore an oath to His Majesty!”

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘for king and country’ propaganda, Captain. I’ve heard it all before and I’m sick of it,” Jean-Marc screamed. “If you think that I feel honored to have lost my leg for king and country, well you’re sorely mistaken. What did the king give me as recompense for becoming a cripple in the line of duty? Nothing! The king has riches beyond compare and he owed me. . .”

“The king owes you nothing!” Athos spat. As quick as lightening, the Musketeer lieutenant grabbed his own pistol and shot Gerard, hitting him square in the chest and killing him instantly.

Philippe swung his musket, clubbing Athos in the back of the head with the stock of his weapon. The Musketeer lieutenant fell forward into the dirt in an unconscious heap.

“Athos!” Captain Tréville cried. The older Musketeer drew his sword, pointing the sharp tip at Philippe’s throat before the man could even react. “Make one move and I will slice your throat open.” 

“Drop the sword, Captain,” Jean-Marc snarled as he pointed his pistol at Athos’ head. “Drop it, or he dies now. Do as I say,” he paused, “or I will shoot your lieutenant, I swear!”

The captain had no choice but to drop his sword to the ground and raise his hands up in surrender. Philippe took advantage and punched the unarmed Tréville in the stomach, doubling him over as he gasped for air. 

“That was a stupid mistake, killing my man like that,” Jean-Marc said. The sadistic bandit kicked Athos’ leg out of the way as he coolly strolled toward the captain. “Your second-in-command didn’t learn to take orders very well, did he? If he had just listened to me, he wouldn’t be lying in the dirt, bleeding like a stuck pig. Most importantly, my man wouldn’t be dead. So, how are we going to rectify this situation?”

“This stunt you’ve just pulled, Jean-Marc, will be the last mistake you’ll ever make,” Tréville growled. “My men are expecting us back at the garrison very soon; when we don’t show up on time, they’ll come looking for us.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less from your Musketeers,” Jean-Marc laughed. “Hell, I look forward to seeing the looks on their faces when they realize _who_ it is that has taken their mighty captain and noble lieutenant down. I am rather looking forward to it, indeed!”

“I say we take them over to the lodge so the rest of the boys can meet our new guests,” Philippe suggested.

“Yes, let’s head on over to the lodge,” Jean-Marc agreed. “We can set up a protective perimeter around the property so when the cavalry comes looking for their captain, we’ll be ready for them.”

“You will never get away with this!” Tréville yelled. He struggled as Philippe grabbed his arms from behind in attempt to tie his hands together. The captain used his shoulder to knock the slender bandit to the ground and then reached for his main gauche. Before the captain could retrieve his weapon, Jean-Marc slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of the Musketeer’s head, knocking him unconscious.

“Damned wily bunch, these two,” Jean-Marc said, shaking his head. “Let’s get these two tied up and on their horses; we’ll take them to the lodge before the rest of the garrison comes looking for them. I plan on having a little fun before we make our demands with the king. If His Majesty wants his men back alive, he’ll pay the ransom that we demand. He will also provide us safe transport out of France, or his Musketeers die!”

**Musketeer Garrison, Later:**

“Get your stew while it’s hot!” Serge called to the three Musketeers sitting at the picnic table cleaning their weapons after a hard afternoon of training.

“Thanks, Serge, but we’ll eat when Athos and the captain get back,” Aramis said, waving off the cook.

“Stew’s hot now, boys,” Serge said, motioning his head toward the mess hall. “You’re worried about them, aren’t you?”

“Well, they did say they’d be back by now,” d’Artagnan added, anxiously. He stared at the arched entryway to the garrison grounds, as though willing his superiors to ride through the gates at his command. “Where could they be?”

“Now, c’mon boys, the cap’n and Athos probably just got delayed in Versailles,” Serge said, wiping his hands dry on a towel. “Diplomatic matters are not so easily resolved in an afternoon’s time… but your stew _is_ getting cold.”

“Give our portions to the men,” Aramis stated. The medic stood, jamming his feathered hat on his head with steely resolve. He strung his weapon’s belt around his slender waist and then attached his newly-cleaned pistol to the leather belt. “Something is not right; I can feel it.”

“Me too,” d’Artagnan agreed. “They said they’d be here by now, and the captain is never late.”

“Well, we’re wastin’ time sittin’ here talkin’ about it!” Porthos stood and set his hands on his hips. “Let’s go find the cap’n and Athos.”

“Hold on, boys,” Serge held up his hand to stop them. “What if they were just delayed by the king and you’re ridin’ out there for nothing?”

“Look, it’s going to be dark soon and we have no idea where they are,” Aramis replied. “If Athos and the captain need our help, the darkness only adds to their troubles… and ours.” The medic turned to follow his brothers toward the stable, but stopped short. “If we’re not back by noon, send out twenty men toward Versailles in search of us,” he said, nodding to the cook.

“I’ll send out twenty _plus_ one, because I’ll be comin’ with ‘em,” Serge said, returning the nod. “Good luck, boys,” he called out to the departing men. “Bring back Athos and our captain!”

“We won’t be comin’ back without ‘em, that’s a guarantee.” Porthos tipped his hat to the old cook before disappearing around the corner.

“What if we don’t find them before nightfall?” d’Artagnan asked, as he mounted his horse.

“Well, let’s just pray that we do,” Aramis said, as he guided his horse out of the stall. “If we don’t find them before nightfall, then we’ll continue searching by the light of the moon.”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos gave a throaty growl. “If someone’s taken the cap’n and Athos, they’re gonna regret it. Dammit, I had stakes in the card game tonight at the Wren.”

“Maybe we’ll meet them on the road and all our worry will be for nothing,” d’Artagnan called to his brothers as they raced toward the city gates. “We can hope, anyway.”

“If only it was that easy, but it never is,” Aramis grumbled. The medic galloped ahead of his brothers, racing toward the city gates and the road west to Versailles. He prayed they would meet the missing duo along the way; they would all laugh as Athos playfully chided them for stressing and worrying over nothing. But he had a bad feeling that something had gone terribly wrong and his friends were in serious danger. Time was of the essence, as death waits for no one.

**Hunting Lodge, Somewhere near Versailles:**

“Athos… Athos, can you hear me?” Captain Tréville called out. The older man twisted in his seat, turning as far as his restraints would allow in attempt to get a better look at his lieutenant tied to the chair behind him. “Oh no, Athos. . .”

Athos’ head hung limply, obviously still unconscious. The captain winced as he saw the tracks of dried blood caked down the lieutenant’s neck, disappearing underneath his doublet. His dark hair was matted with blood; clumps of bloody hair plastered to the side of his head and his ear.

“Aw, Athos,” the captain moaned. “Dammit, I shouldn’t have let you come with me today. If I had gone to Versailles alone, you wouldn’t be hurt. What happened with Jean-Marc wasn’t your fault, it was mine. I was his commanding officer; it was _my_ decision to send him on that mission. If only I had known that I was sending my men into a trap. If only I had known…”

Captain Tréville turned back around in his chair to stare with disgust at the dirt floor. He looked around the dark, dank room and frowned at the stone walls, glistening with moisture; he wrinkled his nose at the musty smell and shuddered at the chill in the air. The captain ignored his misgivings of the situation and continued talking to Athos, though he was still unconscious.

“For the last four years, I have felt regret for what happened to my men at the hands of the Spaniards,” Tréville lamented. “As captain, I felt responsible for Jean-Marc’s injuries, but he was one of the lucky ones; though he nearly lost a leg, he lived to see another day. I lost three good men that day!” 

“However, after what Jean-Marc did to you, I take back the regret, and any remorse I’ve ever felt for…”

“Cap’n?” Athos whispered hoarsely. “Where, where. . . are we? What… happ’nd?”

“Athos! Athos, are you alright?” the captain asked with concern. “You were hit pretty hard on the back of your head,” he explained. “Do you remember anything, before you were hit?”

“I ‘member… we were… we were heading home…” the lieutenant paused as he tried to think. “I ‘member… My God, Jean-Marc… Captain, what does he want with us?”

“What we want, Athos, is for the king to acknowledge the mistake he made in sending us to the border in the first place,” Jean-Marc interrupted. “And I want compensation for the king kicking me out of the regiment because of my wounds…”

“Your leg was nearly severed at the knee, Dubois!” Captain Tréville retorted angrily. “The king had no choice but to release you from his regiment; you were no longer physically capable of soldiering! I had no choice but to discharge you of your duties at the king’s command.”

“There is no shame in… retiring early due to… injuries rec’vd in the line of duty,” Athos added weakly. 

“I’ve learned to walk on this bum leg,” Jean-Marc countered. “And though I walk with a limp, I can still handle a sword pretty well for a cripple. You and His Majesty never gave me a chance to prove myself; you just threw me out on the street like a damn dog.”

“Oh, come on, Dubois, are you so delusional to believe that you could still keep up with an opponent in a sword fight?” Captain Tréville asked. “Do you honestly believe that you could still soldier as well as the rest of the men under my command?”

“Footwork is part of the strategy… in a sword fight,” Athos drawled. “Any savvy opponent, who caught on to your disability, would certainly use it to their advantage. They would skewer you through with their sword… the first time you stumbled.” 

“You always thought you were the expert swordsman—that you were better than me,” Jean-Marc sneered. “With more practice, I could have bested you.”

“Not in this lifetime…”

“Why, you sanctimonious bastard!” Dubois growled. The ruthless man circled around to Athos’ front and gave the lieutenant a swift punch to his belly.

Athos coughed as the air was forced from his body with a sudden _whoosh_! Panic washed over him as he gasped for air, but found none. It felt as though cold, steely fingers had wrapped themselves around his throat, constricting and cutting off the oxygen from his lungs. 

“Diable!” Captain Tréville cursed. “Jean-Marc, stop it now!” The captain twisted around to watch as his lieutenant gasped for air, writhing in his chair as he struggled to catch his breath. “Athos had nothing to do with my decision to let you go!”

“Maybe not, but wasn’t he always your favorite, Tréville?” Jean-Marc sneered. “I have dreamt of punishing you for kicking me out of the regiment; what better way to hurt you than by hurting your _golden boy,_ Athos.”

“You always were jealous of Athos,” Captain Tréville countered. “You never could accept the fact that he exceeded you in every manner possible as a soldier, as a Musketeer. You envied his skills as a swordsman above all else; and you envied his innate skill as a leader—something you could never be.”

“I was never given the chance!” Jean-Marc yelled. “Your blatant favoritism for your boy, Athos, blinded you.”

“Oh, come now, Dubois, do you really believe that?” Tréville retorted. “You never could accept the fact that Athos outpaced you at every level of soldiering; but worse, you couldn’t accept that he was promoted _over_ you as lieutenant!”

“I was a Musketeer for five years longer than Athos was,” Jean-Marc snapped. “That promotion was _mine_!"

“You really are delusional,” Athos grunted.

“Athos, quiet!” the captain warned.

“Now, isn’t this sweet—the captain is protecting you,” the angry man mocked. “Too bad he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—protect me when I needed him most. You should have to suffer the same as I suffered.”

“If you’re angry with me, then take it out on _me_ like a man,” Tréville challenged. “Let’s sort this out, like gentlemen.”

“Like gentlemen?” Jean-Marc repeated with surprise. “You want to talk about honor and chivalry, after you threw me away like damaged goods? No, I am going to hurt you just like you hurt me… right in the heart.”

Suddenly, the man moved to Athos’ chair and viciously punched the lieutenant in his side. The sickening sound of a bone breaking was heard just a split second before Athos’ pain-filled scream.

“Salaud!” Tréville yelled out. With unbridled rage, the captain moved his chair with his body and slammed it into Jean-Marc; the force of the collision knocked the man off his feet and sent him sprawling to the floor. The angry man’s shoulder impacted with the dirt floor, eliciting a howl of pain in chorus with Athos.

Philippe and Étienne ran into the room, stopping short at the unexpected mayhem before them. The two men rushed to assist their leader, helping the furious man to his feet. Jean-Marc jerked away and then charged at Captain Tréville; he grabbed the Musketeer roughly by his collar and shook him mercilessly.

“That was a stupid mistake, Captain,” Jean-Marc paused, “you will pay for that blunder.” Before Tréville could react, the bandit slammed his pistol into the side of the Musketeer’s head, knocking him out instantly.

Athos bounced his chair sideways in attempt to intervene on behalf of the injured captain, but Jean-Marc kicked out a leg of the chair, sending the Musketeer falling backward to the floor. The lieutenant screamed in pain as his arms took the initial impact of his weight when hitting the floor, sending stabs of jarring pain shooting up his body.

The excruciating pain in Athos’ arms lingered only fractions of a second before his head impacted with a dull _thud_ on the hard, dirt floor. The Musketeer lieutenant weakly lifted his head and tried to speak, but the darkness was too powerful. Athos let his head drop back to the floor and he moved no more.

TBC


	2. Jean-Marc's Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Tréville and Athos gasped in surprise as black hoods were placed over their heads; the innocent pair were arrested and taken into custody as common criminals. The prison guards took charge of their detainees and led them away, sealing their fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, for those of you readers who love to curl up and read—for longer than short bursts—this chapter is for you! Unlike most fics that spread out a story over multiple, shorter chapters, this story will be told in longer, but fewer chapters. I don’t mind going against the current if you don’t. Enjoy!

**His Majesty’s Hunting Lodge, Versailles:**

“No, they’re not here,” King Louis XIII answered with surprise. “They both left the lodge yesterday afternoon; neither said any such thing about going anywhere but Paris. Captain Tréville said that he wanted to be back at the garrison before dinner.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, that is what he told us as well,” Aramis replied with a nod. “But when they didn’t come home last night we took to the road, supposing they were running late. We never came across them and…”

“Your Majesty, we have searched for them all night but there is no sign of them anywhere,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “We stopped by your lodge hoping they were merely detained longer than expected…” 

“… but I already said that they left here yesterday afternoon,” King Louis interjected impatiently. “I did not have any further business with them, so I gave Captain Tréville and Athos my permission to return to Paris. If they went elsewhere, it was without my knowledge.”

“Forgive me, Sire, but we both know that neither Captain Tréville nor Athos would have gone anywhere else but straight back to the garrison,” Aramis retorted. The medic turned away and dragged a shaking hand down his face; he locked eyes with Porthos and saw the same fear mirrored in his own.

“But if they’re not here,” Louis hesitated, “and they’re not at the garrison…” 

“… then ‘at means they’re in trouble,” Porthos concluded, voicing everyone’s thoughts. “The cap’n is never late,” he paused, “and neither is Athos. There can only be one reason why they didn’t come home last night—somethin’ is wrong!”

“I agree, Your Majesty,” Aramis said in support of his brother’s suspicions. He swallowed the lump in his throat and let out a long, anxious breath. “Something must have happened to them, though we didn’t see any sign of trouble along the road.” 

“True, but it was getting dark and we might have missed something,” d’Artagnan countered. “If they were in trouble, I think Athos would have left something behind as a clue… if he was physically able to, anyway.”

“Right, but if they were taken by surprise, they might not ‘av gotten the chance to leave behind a clue,” Porthos replied in agreement. 

“If they were hurt, maybe there will be some evidence of a struggle on the road,” Aramis said, tugging a hand through his hair. “But that is a long road to examine, and it’s really a shot in the dark.” The medic looked at his brothers with panged eyes, silently communicating his worry and sense of foreboding. 

“Are you suggesting that they were taken hostage?” the king asked, flabbergasted. “But why? The business we discussed yesterday was of no import, so why would anyone take my Musketeers?”

“Your Majesty, we request your permission to gather a search party,” Aramis said, ignoring the king’s questions. “If they’ve been taken hostage, then we need to find them. If they are hurt, every minute counts; they’ve already been missing for well over twelve hours.”

“We need to get out there lookin’ for them!” Porthos declared.

“I will come with you,” King Louis asserted. “My business here is done, so I will join you on your search. If we do not find them quickly, then we will ride to Paris and muster the search party at the garrison.” 

“Your Majesty, I don’t think ‘at’s a very good idea,” Porthos said with warning.

“That is definitely _not_ a good idea, Sire. Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan gulped, hoping he didn’t overstep his bounds with the king.

“What is not a good idea?” King Louis questioned, asking for clarification from the men. “Am I not the king of France? As your king, _everything_ I suggest is a good idea, wouldn’t you agree?”

The three Musketeers were momentarily at a loss for words, trading nervous glances. 

“Yes, Your Majesty, we agree, but…” Porthos began, but paused as he looked to his brothers for input.

“Yes, Your Majesty, you are… king, but…” d’Artagnan seemed reluctant to finish.

“Your Majesty, your ideas are usually… superior,” Aramis said, politely. “However, we don’t think it’s a good idea that,” he took a deep breath, “you come with us on this search. We could be dealing with very dangerous people out there. We have no idea what we are facing; you could be putting yourself in harm’s way, Sire.”

“Nonsense, I insist,” the king said stubbornly, holding his ground. “I am finished here in Versailles and I want to help, so let us get started right away.” 

The Musketeer brothers traded glances, knowing they wouldn’t win the dispute with His Majesty, and let out a sigh of resignation. The men knew that once the king had made up his mind, they could do nothing but go along with his notions of adventure, albeit reluctantly. 

“We would rather you didn’t come along, for your own safety, Your Majesty,” Aramis clarified. “However, if you insist upon going, then you must agree to stay behind us and _listen_ to us. As Musketeers, your safety is our priority, Sire.” 

“Indeed, it is the job I commissioned you to do,” King Louis stated in agreement. “However, I understand your reasoning and I do take your concerns to heart,” he relented. “I will not get in your way, but these are _my_ men who are missing. So, when do we leave?”

“Now, Your Majesty,” Aramis answered, leading the way to the stables. The medic mounted his horse and rode ahead a short distance to make certain the way was safe; satisfied, he pulled on the reins to hold steady until the others rode up beside him. “The road ahead looks clear, from this point, at least. The captain and Athos have waited long enough for us to come find them and bring them home.”

“What are we waiting for?” King Louis asked with an excited smile. He kicked his horse into a gallop, staying in between d’Artagnan and Porthos, but behind Aramis, as they raced east toward Paris. 

**Hunting Lodge, somewhere near Versailles:**

Captain Tréville awoke stiff and sore, his head pounding with every beat of his heart. He tried to move his arms but found them strangely uncooperative. He yanked on his hands and was startled by the loud clanking noise of chains. Fog muddled his mind, making it impossible to think. He remembered a dirt floor, but this wasn’t the same place—he could determine that much—but how he got here, he hadn’t a clue. 

One detail he _did_ know was that his head hurt, though he couldn’t remember why.

The captain turned his head to the left and saw the figure of a man, sitting beside him on the dirty stone floor. The man was slumped over, yet held upright by his arms shackled to the wall above his head. “Athos?” he called. “My God, Athos! Athos, wake up… Athos!” 

Tréville moved his foot to gently kick Athos on the leg to rouse him, but got no reaction. He kicked again, but harder. This time, he heard a low moaning followed by a throaty growl of warning. 

“Kick me… again and you… you will regret it… dam- dammit,” he slurred.

“Athos… Athos, it’s me,” called the captain. “Athos, wake up, now! This isn’t time to take a nap,” he paused, watching his lieutenant closely. “Athos, we need to figure out how to get out of here.”

“I heard you… but it’s a little hard to… escape when we’re… chained to the wall.” Athos yanked on his hands to prove his point, but instantly regretted it as dizziness and nausea washed over him. His stomach rolled; the Musketeer barely had time to turn his head before he vomited until his stomach was empty. “Ah, damn…”

“Athos, just try to sit still,” Tréville soothed. “You have a head injury and…”

Athos winced as pain in his ribs suddenly flared, causing his breath to hitch. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes against the nausea threatening to overtake him once again. “Dammit, wha’ hap-happened to us?”

“As I began to say, you have a head injury; I’m also fairly certain that you have a cracked rib after Jean-Marc punched you,” Tréville said, his voice laced with worry. “Do you remember anything, Athos?” 

“I remember…”

“Well, look who is awake!” Jean-Marc said, startling both hostages in the small room. “I was wondering how long you were going to make me wait; I’ve been getting quite anxious to begin our little game.”

“This is no game, Jean-Marc!” Tréville shouted angrily.

“What the hell do you want, Dubois?” Athos growled. The Musketeer slowly lifted his head to glare at the sadistic man taunting them.

“I want satisfaction,” Jean-Marc hissed. “I want to take from you what you took from me: my career and my hope for the future.”

“We didn’t take your career from you, Dubois,” Captain Tréville countered. “The enemy, the Spaniards, ended your career,” he corrected. “You know getting wounded, or even killed, is a risk we all face as soldiers, as Musketeers. Athos had _nothing_ to do with my decision to let you go; it was the king and I who decided, but we had no other choice. Your injuries were too serious and your handicap would have led to your death, or the death of one of my men, should you have remained a Musketeer. If you were half the man I thought you were, Dubois, you would have accepted our decision and moved on with your life.”

“Moved on with my life?” Jean-Marc repeated with surprise. “How do I move on after I was left a cripple because of you?” he asked. “Imagine how insulted I was after receiving such meager compensation as severance pay—for service as a King’s Musketeer! I deserved better; I deserved _more_ than what was offered to me!”

“So you stole the money from the payroll,” Athos argued. “Money that was supposed to go to the regiment, some of whom had families to feed and support! You selfish, pompous fool; you never deserved to wear the pauldron of a King’s Musketeer.” 

“And you always were an arrogant, pretentious arse who used his nobility to _steal_ officer’s rank, rather than earn it.” The sadistic man grabbed Athos by the hair and slapped him across the face. 

Athos’ head snapped to the side, but he didn’t say a word. He defiantly glared back at Jean-Marc with hatred burning in his eyes.

“You noble mongrel!” Jean-Marc hissed through clenched teeth as he grabbed Athos by the hair again. “You were no better than anyone else in the regiment—you were no better than me! I had been working as a Musketeer for years, with nothing to show for it. But then along comes Tréville’s favorite boy!”

“Enough!” Captain Tréville shouted. “Athos _never_ used his nobility to any unfair advantage. If anything, he was running away from his nobility and his past. Athos is the least arrogant, least pretentious man I have _ever_ known in all my decades of service. I chose him as my second-in-command because I saw greatness in him, even when he couldn’t see it in himself. Athos is a born leader, with qualities that are not learned, but are inherent to a commander. I knew he was the perfect selection for my second-in-command, and I chose accordingly,” the captain asserted. “One day, he will make a fine captain.” 

“Captain, you think too much of me…” Athos whispered softly. He lowered his head, hiding his face as moisture stung his eyes.

“Oh, please, save it; I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach!” Jean-Marc spat. “After hearing your sentimental manure, I think it’s best I did leave the regiment. If I wished to be around such mawkish emotion, I would dress as a girl and serve in the queen’s court—it would be every bit as nauseating!”

“What in the name of heaven do you want then, Dubois?” Tréville blurted, having long ago run out of patience.

“I want enough money to live the rest of my life in comfort,” Jean-Marc replied. “I want to leave this continent and travel to the New World; I want a new beginning. I want true compensation for my injuries… and you two are going to help me get it.”

“The hell we will,” Athos growled.

“Oh, you will,” Jean-Marc laughed. “I believe His Majesty will pay handsomely when he finds out that I have his top-ranking officers as hostages. I have a perfectly beautiful plan in mind; the king will have no choice but to pay up… or watch you die!”

**Later:**

“Get the wagon ready for travel,” Jean-Marc ordered Philippe and Étienne. “We’re leaving as soon as they are dressed.” 

Athos and Captain Tréville exchanged worried glances, but remained quiet.

“Take off your uniforms and put these clothes on,” the angry man ordered, throwing a pile of clothes at the men. “I’m going to make you two look like common folk; no one will notice you or even look at you. You will be the filth of the city; you will be the sewer rats they hide away in the Court of Miracles. I’ve planned it all out, and nothing will stop me now!” 

“Dubois, you are sick in the head!” Athos growled.

“Your accusations mean nothing to me,” Jean-Marc countered, sharply. “I can assure you that I am quite well in the head—my plan is utterly perfect. You have ten minutes to strip and get these clothes on; if you are not ready, I will make you wish you had listened to me!”

“Where are you taking us?” Tréville demanded.

“Gentlemen, we are going to Paris… to attend a public hanging.”

*****

“There is another hunting lodge in there, through that grove of trees,” King Louis said, pointing into the forest. “If one was not so familiar with this land as I am, one would never know a hunting lodge sits back there. The lodge belonged to the Dubois family; they always were somewhat grandiloquent.”

“Dubois?” Aramis repeated. “Isn’t that the name of the Musketeer whose leg was mangled by the Spaniard’s on that…” he snapped his fingers trying to remember. “It was that failed mission at the border!”

“Yes, ‘at’s him,” Porthos said, nodding. “Dubois was part of a small reconnaissance team on the southern border,” he recalled, his eyes narrowing. “The team was caught in a firefight; all but Dubois was killed. The cap’n had to release him after his leg was rendered useless, so he left the regiment very bit’er.”

“Wait a minute, isn’t he also the one who stole the bags of gold intended to pay the men?” d’Artagnan asked, but was met with confused stares. “Oh, I’ve heard the men talking about it over their beers,” he explained. “Most of the men think Dubois still holds a grudge against the captain for cutting him from the regiment.”

“I _ordered_ Captain Tréville to release Dubois from my regiment,” the king interjected. “I cannot have a crippled man guarding me, or my queen. He was no longer fit to be Musketeer.”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos growled. “If he still holds resentment toward the cap’n, then he may have had somethin’ to do with his disappearance!” 

“Why don’t we go have a look, gentlemen,” the king said, tipping his head toward the lodge. He made a clicking sound as he nudged his horse forward, heading down the long, winding path through the trees.

“Your Majesty, I want you to stay between Porthos and myself,” Aramis instructed as the two men closed in on either side of the king. “D’Artagnan, you ride ahead of His Majesty, in case anyone is in that lodge, hoping to take a shot at us.”

“Thanks a lot, Aramis,” d’Artagnan quipped sarcastically. The young Gascon winced, realizing his mistake, given their present company. “I mean, I will gladly ride in front of His Majesty.”

“Nevermind the formalities, d’Artagnan,” the king sighed, shaking his head.

The group rode the rest of the way in silence, remaining vigilant, yet apprehensive. The three Musketeers dismounted their horses and quickly crowded around the overly-eager king as he rushed toward the front door. 

“Your Majesty, please, stay behind us and let us keep you safe,” Porthos pleaded. “Don’t you go chargin’ in there now; let us do our jobs.”

The three Musketeers drew their pistols and waited beside the large door of the lodge as Aramis knocked and called for Dubois. Upon hearing no noise coming from inside, the men entered the lodge and crept quietly through the large foyer. They stopped to listen for movement, but it seemed the lodge was empty.

“Have you been inside this lodge before, Your Majesty?” d’Artagnan asked. “Do you know your way around, that is?”

“Yes, I’ve been in here several times, but it has been many years,” Louis answered. “I remember there were several bedrooms upstairs, and a basement… just down those stairs,” he shuddered. “I was always frightened of the basement; it was always cold, musty and dark.” 

“Well then, that is the first place we’re checking,” Aramis said, starting toward the stairs. The medic stopped when the group came upon a closed door in the hallway. “What’s in there?” 

“Oh, that was Monsieur Dubois’s office,” King Louis answered, his face brightening. “I remember it being quite large and exquisite.”

Porthos opened the door and the group followed him inside. The large Musketeer suddenly stopped in his tracks and gasped.

“What is it, Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked, anxiously stepping out from behind the group. 

“Mon Dieu!” Aramis exclaimed, his eyes wide in horror. “Oh no…”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos cursed as he rushed toward the chaise longue where he found the piles of familiar uniforms—boots, leather doublets, sword belts and weapons. “These are their uniforms!”

“Merde!” d’Artagnan cursed as he held an item up. “There’s blood on Athos’ scarf!” 

“There is also blood on the collar of his doublet,” Aramis said, as he examined the black leather jacket. “Oh no, it looks like the captain is also wounded, there’s blood on his doublet as well.” 

“My God!” the king exclaimed as he read a document on the desktop. “I know where they may have gone!” he announced.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” Aramis asked, rushing to the king’s side at the desk. 

“This document… the date…” the king gasped, his face draining of all color. “Heavens, I forgot that I was to oversee an execution this afternoon!”

“Your Majesty, what does this have to do with the captain and Athos?” Aramis asked, abruptly.

“This case stands out above all the others because one of the men to be hanged was named Dubois,” the king reported. “I believe it was the youngest son.”

“We need to get to Paris now!” Aramis yelled, running toward the front door, with the group following closely on his heels.

**The Bastille, Paris:**

Jean-Marc pulled the wagon, carrying his two special hostages, down the dusty, crowded Rue du Rempart and then stopped in a small alleyway. “We will hide the wagon here and walk to the gate,” he told Philippe and Étienne. 

The bandits smiled as they gazed toward the exquisite Porte Sainte-Antoine gate, just down the street from their location. The ominous stone structure of the Bastille stood tall, rising high above the surrounding landscape; the stones almost gleamed in the high afternoon sun.

Captain Tréville cradled Athos close to him, worried as the younger man moaned in pain after the long, bumpy ride in the back of the wagon. The lieutenant’s face sheened with sweat; small droplets of perspiration rolled along his skin and disappeared into the hairline. 

“Athos, we’ve stopped,” Captain Tréville whispered in concern. “Athos, are you alright?” 

“I’m… I’m f-fine,” Athos said, shuddering in pain. 

“Yes, sure you are,” Tréville huffed, trying to lighten the moment. He felt a twang of fear as the bandits threw aside the wagon’s canvas covering.

“Get out!” Jean-Marc ordered. “We’re taking a little walk.”

“Athos is in no condition to walk anywhere, damn you!” Tréville snapped, wrapping his arms tighter around the younger man.

“I can walk, Captain,” Athos said, defiantly. “Dubois will n-not get the sat-satisfaction,” the lieutenant glared at the bandit with contempt.

“Ah, you always were strong-willed and obstinate, always trying to prove to everyone how tough you are,” Jean-Marc sneered. “Indeed, I will enjoy watching you walk to the gates of the Bastille where I will turn you—and your captain—over to the guards in exchange for my own, special prisoners.”

“You won’t get away with this, Jean-Marc,” Captain Tréville hissed. “I know my men are out there looking for us, and they will find their way here. My men _will_ find you!”

“Perhaps they will find us, but not in time. When your men finally figure out what is going on—if they are smart enough—it will already be too late. Tsk, tsk,” Jean-Marc mocked. “Soon, you and Athos will be dead.”

“You underestimate the prowess of my men, especially the three looking for us at this very moment,” Tréville stated with certainty. “My men are unwavering, possessing the determination and genius to hunt you down; they will turn over every rock and check every rat-infested sewer until they find you. And God help you when they do!”

“Oh, I am rather looking forward to the challenge,” Jean-Marc laughed. “However, you underestimate how much thought and preparation I have put into this little operation, Captain. I have men on the inside of the Bastille, and all over this city, helping me to pull this off. You would be amazed how easily a guard can be bribed with a pouch full of gold. Now, let’s go!”

Athos and Tréville were forcibly dragged from the wagon by Philippe and Étienne. The lieutenant gritted his teeth against the wave of agony washing over him as Philippe pulled him from the captain’s arms, then almost throwing the Musketeer to the ground. 

“Get your filthy hands off me, damn you!” Athos growled through gritted teeth. 

“If you try escaping, or try anything to gain attention, I will slice his throat wide open,” Jean-Marc threatened. To demonstrate, the lead bandit pulled the knife across the skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. 

“Do as they say, Athos,” Captain Tréville ordered. His heart broke as he watched the proud lieutenant stop fighting and finally acquiesce to the bandit’s will.

The two Musketeers walked between the bandits to the gate where two prison guards waited. Jean-Marc gave one pouch of coins to a guard, which the man jingled then quickly opened in surprise.

“Damn you, where’s the rest?” asked the prison guard.

“You’ll get the rest after the job is done,” Jean-Marc replied, smugly. “I needed assurance that the job would be done _properly._ You’ll get the rest when you deliver my cousin and brother.” 

“If you don’t pay us the rest, I’ll make damn sure you end up in the smallest, most wretched cell here at the fortress,” the guard warned. The two prison guards turned the Musketeers around and proceeded to tie their hands behind their back with rope. 

Athos couldn’t stop the moan from escaping his lips as the guard yanked on his arms, aggravating his cracked rib. Tréville kept his eyes fixed on his lieutenant as his own hands were restrained; he winced as the rope was deliberately pulled too tightly, burning his wrists. 

Captain Tréville and Athos gasped in surprise as black hoods were placed over their heads; the innocent pair were arrested and taken into custody as common criminals. The prison guards took charge of their detainees and led them away, sealing their fate. The captain of the Musketeers and his loyal lieutenant disappeared behind the tall, gleaming stone walls of the Bastille.

And the bandits laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis XIII bought the land near Versailles because of the prolific wildlife/game. The king built a lodge and often stayed there while on hunting trips. The lodge had enough space to house the king and a small entourage. However, it was Louis’ son, Louis XIV (the Sun King), who transformed Versailles into a grand palace; he preferred the palace to the Louvre and made it his home and the seat of the government of France until his death.
> 
>  
> 
> _Porte Saint-Antoine_
> 
>  
> 
> On 1 June 1540, Charles V entered Paris through the gate at Saint-Antoine beside Francis I; the nearby Bastille fired an 800-shot salute. Later, Henry II built a triumphal arch at porte Saint-Antoine with sculptures representing two rivers. In 1610 Louis XIII of France made a ceremonial entry through the gate after his coronation in Reims. The gate was demolished in 1778 as it was a blockage to road traffic.
> 
>  
> 
> _Bastille_
> 
>  
> 
> Construction of the Bastille was begun in 1370, under Charles V in order to protect against the English. The fortress was completed in 1383 under Charles VI, and was transformed into a prison in 1417.  
> But it wasn’t until the reign of Louis XIII when the Bastille became heavily used as a prison, especially under the orders of Cardinal Richelieu. The prison had eight towers; the four corner towers had five floors of jail cells. Later, when the faubourg (suburb) of Saint-Antoine was built, the Bastille was surrounded by houses and shops, despite their neighborhood prison being the most fortified arsenal (Petit Arsenal) and prison in Paris. However, the citizens of the suburb grew to hate the Bastille: the people saw it as a constant reminder of a threat to their personal liberties.
> 
> The Bastille was stormed by Revolutionaries on July 14, 1789, and was completely destroyed in 1790.


	3. Court of Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I swore one day I would get my revenge,” Jean-Marc spat. “You don’t know how many times I had envisioned this moment in my mind. I am going to hurt you, Captain, the same way that you hurt me!” 
> 
> “Jean-Marc, No!” Captain Tréville yelled in horror, unable to stop the events unfolding before his very eyes.

**Petit Arsenal, Bastille:**

Jean-Marc waited impatiently in the courtyard of the Petit Arsenal on the sprawling Bastille grounds; he anxiously paced, worried the guards wouldn’t keep their end of the bargain. But at last, the guards brought with them the purchased prisoners and a change of clothes for each. 

“I heard you’re going to the hanging,” one prison guard stated with a grin. “You’ll want to keep a low profile out there; I suggest you take the least conspicuous route to Place de Grève through the gateway at Rue de la Cerisaie,” he said. “Follow the road west to Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, and the public square is just beyond.”

The prisoners changed clothes and donned cloaks to conceal their identities before following the guards to the Bastille gate, Rue de la Cerisaie. “You’re on your own from here,” the second guard said.

Once the group was far enough away from the Bastille, the men ducked into an empty alleyway where the former prisoners yanked off their cloaks with disgust. “It took you long enough, brother!”

“I told you I would get you out, little brother,” Jean-Marc said. “Your exchange was very expensive, in more ways than one; I expect repayment. Do not go back to the lodge—I’m sure the Musketeers have found it by now.”

“Where do you want us to go?” the younger Dubois brother asked, exchanging glances with his cousin.

“Go to Uncle Pierre’s house in Reims,” Jean-Marc ordered. “Stay there until I come for you. Go on now, I have a hanging to watch at Grève,” he said, shaking hands with the two men. “Oh, and keep those cloaks on until you’re out of the city.”

**Later, Place de Grève, Gallows:**

“Ah, it appears a crowd is already forming in the square for the big event,” Jean-Marc said with a satisfied smile. “Philippe, go now and secure a place for me in front of the scaffold; I want the best seats in the house. Étienne, you go keep an eye out for the king’s cavalcade; His Majesty should be arriving soon. I can’t wait to see the king’s reaction to my plan!”

*****

“What is taking the king so long?” Jean-Marc wondered aloud. “I would have expected him to be here by now, dammit! He cannot miss the big show.”

“Make way!” a man suddenly yelled. “Make way for Bastille prisoners Dubois and Concorde!” The densely packed crowd moved aside like the Red Sea parting before Moses. The people cheered wildly as the wagon rolled by then stopped in front of the scaffold where the executioner and priest were waiting. The driver glanced up at the scaffold; his eyes followed the horizontal crossbeam where two thick ropes gently swayed in the breeze, each rope ready to claim a condemned soul.

The guards prodded and jabbed the prisoners with long lances to force them from the wagon; the condemned wore black hoods over their heads and their hands were tied behind their back. The noise from the crowd was deafening as the men were escorted to the steps of the gallows.

“Justice for the murdered! Justice for the dead!” the crowd chanted over and over as they pumped their arms wildly into the air.

Jean-Marc shifted nervously as he scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of His Majesty, but couldn’t see over the masses of people. Children sat high on their papa’s shoulders, blocking the view of anyone behind them; the shorter people in the back jumped up and down, trying to get a better view of the scaffold where the two prisoners would soon be hung.

The prison guards led the two hooded men up the wooden steps, but one of the prisoners stumbled and fell; the guards simply watched as he slid back down the steps.

The crowd gasped in unison, drowning out the pained gasps of the prisoner as his body impacted the structure. The blood-thirsty crowd watched with glee as the guards roughly pulled the man to his feet and forced him back up the stairs.

The two men were led across the platform, then were each turned to face the crowd behind their respective ropes with the nooses distinctly positioned in front of their hooded faces. The guards bound the feet of each prisoner with rope, making it so they could barely stand without falling over. The chests of the prisoners rose and fell with rapid breaths, yet neither man made a sound. They stood tall, holding their chins up high as they awaited their fate with dignity and incredible strength of will.

The priest called for the hoods to be removed, allowing the prisoners to face their accusers—the angry mob—face to face. The executioner gave his nod of approval, but ordered the nooses to be immediately replaced around their necks once the hoods were removed. The executioner stood by the release bar, awaiting His Majesty’s call. 

As the hoods were removed, and the rope replaced around their necks, the crowd gasped in shock as the identity of the two men revealed they were _not_ the prisoners, Dubois and Concorde. Instead they saw two men that some did not recognize, but others knew from His Majesty’s Musketeer regiment. 

Suddenly, shouting was heard from somewhere in the back of the crowd, catching Jean-Marc’s attention. The bandit rolled up on his tip-toes to see who was yelling for the execution to be stopped, but he couldn’t see where the multiple voices were coming from. 

“Stop this outrage at once!” said a commanding voice from the crowd, nearing the scaffold with each scream.

“No!” Jean-Marc instantly recognized the voice. “Dammit, His Majesty will ruin everything! I have dreamt of this moment far too long to have the king destroy my plan now,” he growled. Philippe instantly reacted by firing a shot into the crowd, sending the people screaming and fleeing in a blind frenzy. Panic ensued as people tripped over one another and trampled the weaker, slower people underfoot. Children cried as they were separated from their parents in the mayhem. 

“I will not have my chance at revenge taken from me!” Jean-Marc yelled as he moved in front of the gallows. The bandit glared at Athos and Captain Tréville, their eyes locking; one set of eyes burned with rage, meeting two sets of eyes staring back in defiance and fortitude. “You have underestimated me!” Dubois seethed in anger, oblivious to the crowd rushing around him.

“I swore one day I would get my revenge,” Jean-Marc spat. “You don’t know how many times I had envisioned this moment in my mind. I am going to hurt you, Captain, the same way that you hurt me!” 

“Jean-Marc, No!” Captain Tréville yelled in horror, unable to stop the events unfolding before his very eyes. The captain stood helpless as the bandit took out his pistol and shot Athos square in the chest.

“NO!” Captain Tréville screamed as Athos was knocked backward by the impact of the lead ball; his limp body hung from the rope now clenched tightly around his neck. The lieutenant’s face turned beet red as the rope slowly strangled him, while his life-blood poured freely from his body. 

Jean-Marc tossed the spent pistol away and then aimed his second pistol at the captain, but the weapon was knocked clear of his hand. Unable to resist the crushing mob, he allowed himself to be swallowed up into the maelstrom, disappearing into the crowd and away from the scene of the crime.

“Athos!” the captain cried, knowing he couldn’t move or else he’d strangle himself. With his hands tied behind his back, and his feet tied together, the captain could do nothing but stand and watch his lieutenant dying. 

Étienne shot the priest as he tried rushing forward to hold Athos up; he laughed as the priest’s body fell off the scaffold to the ground below. The bandit walked away and was swallowed up by the panicked crowd; he disappeared with the fleeing mob.

“Hold that man up!” King Louis ordered the executioner, but he was nowhere to be found. “Stay this execution!” 

“Athos! Captain!” The alarmed screams rose over the crowd as the three Musketeers finally emerged to scramble up the gallows steps in a desperate attempt to save their brothers-in-arms. “Athos, NO!”

Porthos and Aramis rushed to pick up Athos as he gurgled under the pressure of the rope. His white shirt was soaked with a growing stain of red, now circling wide and dripping down to the platform. 

“Oh God, NO!” d’Artagnan screamed. The younger man rushed with his main gauche to cut the rope, strangling the life from his mentor, as his two brothers held up the limp man’s weight in their arms. After the rope was cut, the men gently laid Athos down on the wooden platform, turning him slightly so the Gascon could cut away the ropes binding his hands. 

Next, d’Artagnan turned to cut away the ropes binding the captain’s hands and feet, as the king frantically loosened the rope from around his neck. “I’m alright,” Tréville rasped, “just take care of Athos.” 

“Mon Dieu, he was hit near the heart!” Aramis yelled with alarm. A prison guard appeared and handed the medic a towel, which he immediately pressed to Athos’ chest to staunch the flow of blood. 

“Help him, Aramis!” Porthos cried as he held his hands over the wound, pressing down hard against the bleeding. 

“He’s losing too much blood!” Aramis shouted as he shook his head. “I can’t stop the flow; he’s bleeding out too fast.” 

“Just keep pressure on it!” Captain Tréville ordered, his face drained of all color at the horrific sight.

Aramis checked the neck for a pulse, pausing as his eyes grew wide with fear; he put his ear to Athos’ chest, listening for a heartbeat, but heard nothing. “Oh God, his heart has stopped! No, don’t you do this, Athos! Don’t you _dare_ let Jean-Marc win!” 

The medic immediately began chest compressions; he gave Athos a firm _whack!_ with his fist over the sternum in attempt to jumpstart the heart. “Come on, Athos, fight! Dammit, fight!” Aramis furiously worked on his unconscious patient, counting aloud with each compression. “One, two, three; one, two, three,” the medic chanted as beads of sweat ran down his face. 

“What do you need us to do?” d’Artagnan asked, noting Aramis’ exhaustion.

“Nothing, just stay clear… one, two, three,” the medic continued his compressions without stopping. 

“Stop for a minute,” Porthos later insisted. “I’ll check ‘is pulse.” The large Musketeer placed his fingers over the artery in Athos’ neck and waited. He locked eyes with Aramis as they both held their breath.

“Wait!” Porthos blurted, but then shook his head as he waited again. He closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting to confirm that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake. “Wait… yes, I have a pulse… Aramis, I have a pulse!” he shouted.

Aramis put his ear over Athos’ chest to make sure, but then instantly shot upright as he heard the sweet sound of a heartbeat, though it was slow and weaker than he would have preferred. “I have a heartbeat, but we need to get this ball out of him, NOW!” he yelled to the crowd around him. “We need a doctor; I am not skilled enough for this kind of surgery!”

A man from the crowd stepped forward to answer the request, but stopped short as he recognized the king anxiously standing nearby. “Your Majesty, I am a physician,” the man bowed. “In fact, Sire, I was one of _your_ physicians for the army after the siege at La Rochelle, though I left the army and have been practicing locally since.”

“Yes, doctor, thank you,” King Louis accepted the man’s offer to help. “Please, do what you can for my Musketeer… please, save him!” 

“My clinic is just around the corner,” the doctor said, pointing to the right. “There is little that I can do for him here on the gallows, seeing that I do not have my kit or my instruments with me.” 

“If it’s not far, I can carry him,” Porthos offered. “I’ll be careful, Aramis?” he asked, his brows raised questioningly. 

“We can’t do anything for him up here; we have no choice but to move him,” Aramis replied. “Be very careful,” the medic instructed Porthos as he gently scooped Athos into his arms, mindful of the delicate injury.

Porthos painstakingly followed behind the physician through the crowd, all the while trying to dodge the still-panicked, but thinning horde. The other Musketeers formed a protective circle around the duo, acting as bodyguards for the badly injured patient. 

“Put him on the table,” Doctor Lacroix said, pointing inside his small clinic. The doctor grabbed his medical kit and a few extra tools and then rushed to the patient’s side to examine the wound. Aramis, continued putting pressure on Athos’ chest with the blood-drenched towel.

“What do you need me to do?” Aramis asked the doctor as he removed the soaked towel. 

“Well, my nurse, Celeste, is not here, so you can take her place,” the physician replied. Doctor Lacroix began cutting away the shirt, revealing the gaping gunshot wound on Athos’ chest, just left of the heart. “How much medical experience do you have, young man?”

Aramis opened his mouth to answer, but Captain Tréville quickly interrupted. “He’s the best medic in the regiment; he’s the best I've ever seen, bar none. Aramis has saved countless lives, both on and off the battlefield—you couldn’t ask for a more capable assistant, Doctor.”

“I wholeheartedly concur with Captain Tréville,” King Louis said, to the surprise of everyone in the room. “He has taken good care of the men in my regiment; I am quite pleased with his service.”

“Well, you certainly come with the highest of recommendations, Aramis,” the doctor said, nodding. “The first thing we need to do is clear this room. I’m sorry, but that includes you, Your Majesty,” Lacroix respectfully added. “There are too many people in here, making it unsettling and unsanitary. Please, I have a nice parlor across the hall where you can wait comfortably for news” 

“Let’s give the doctor room to work, everyone,” Captain Tréville said. “Your Majesty, after you,” the captain swept his arm toward the hall, waiting.

“Well, this is indeed a first,” Louis sniffed. “I am the King of France, yet I am being kicked out! I am being relegated to a side room like common folk, forced to wait in the hall as though I am not wanted.”

Doctor Lacroix and Aramis ignored the king’s pouting and self-pity, as they already had begun working on saving the patient. The doctor poured a liberal amount of wine over the still-bleeding wound, while Aramis dried away the bloody mess with a towel. Lacroix took the scalpel, and then carefully sliced across the skin...

“Come on, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville asserted. “Let’s leave them to their work.

**Waiting Room:**

The men waited quietly, each lost in their own private hell. The Musketeers worried for their brother; while the king worried that he would lose one of the most accomplished soldiers he’d ever had serving under him. Captain Tréville sat quietly with his head resting in his hands, gently rubbing at his temples.

“Captain, how badly are you hurt?” d’Artagnan asked, watching the older man with concern.

“Oi, come to think of it, you don’t look so well, Cap’n,” Porthos added, exchanging a worried glance with d’Artagnan.

“I’m fine…”

“You do look rather pale, Captain,” the king interjected. The monarch looked closer at his captain and winced. “Why, is that blood matted in your hair, Tréville?” 

“Captain, we know you’re wounded,” d’Artagnan stated, matter-of-factly. “We saw evidence of blood on your doublet back at the lodge,” he said, jumping to his feet to examine the wound. “Why would you hide it from us?”

“Hmm, I distinctly remember a certain cap’n tellin’ us to never hide our injuries,” Porthos said with a throaty growl. 

“Yes, but this is different,” the captain replied sharply. “I am fine, gentlemen. I just got a small knock to the head; my wound can wait until later. I will have it tended after Athos is…” he sighed and shook his head.

“He’s going to be fine, Captain,” d’Artagnan asserted softly, nearly whispering. “We _have_ to believe that.” 

“I won’t believe otherwise,” Porthos affirmed. “No way, we’re not losin’ Athos—not like this. We’re not losin’ him to that bastard, Jean-Marc… if you would pardon my language, Your Majesty.”

“No, it is quite alright, Porthos,” King Louis said, holding his hand up with a reassuring nod. “I remember this man, Jean-Marc Dubois. I remember how your captain agonized over having to release him, but I had given him no choice. A Musketeer with a crippled leg was of no use to me, or my regiment. Letting him go was unfortunate, but necessary. In addition, Captain Tréville is not to blame for what happened on that mission.” 

“He most certainly is not, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan agreed. “As Musketeers, we accept that our job is sometimes dangerous, but we do our jobs because we love our country and our king,” he smiled. “We accept the risks this job involves; we do it, despite the risks, because it is our duty. We don’t question the captain, or you, Sire,” the Gascon’s smile faded.

“But Jean-Marc did question the risks,” Porthos growled. “And those questions later led to his retaliation.”

“All of this happened simply because Jean-Marc wanted revenge?” d’Artagnan asked, thoroughly appalled. “How could one man harbor so much hate and thirst for vengeance?”

“Easier than you think, li’l brother,” Porthos interjected. “Right now, if I could get my hands on that devil…”

“If you did, it would make you no better than Jean-Marc,” Captain Tréville countered, lifting his head up. “This entire predicament—the panicked crowd, the _real_ prisoners now at large, Athos being shot—none of it would have happened if it had not been for Dubois’ intense thirst for retribution.”

The room fell silent once again, each retreating back into their own private thoughts as they waited for news on Athos. D’Artagnan resorted to praying, though he couldn’t remember the last time he actually prayed or even believed in the power of prayer. 

Captain Tréville remained silent, leaning over with his forehead resting on the palms of his hands, obviously deeply troubled at the day’s events.

On occasion, Porthos would see the captain shake his head with regret, as though reliving the horror at the courtyard gallows in the privacy of his own mind. The weight of regret and guilt was evident in the captain’s slumped shoulders; his demeanor clearly reflected his inner pain.

Porthos shifted his thoughts back to Athos, wondering how his beloved brother was faring. He wondered how the surgery was going and how Aramis was holding up, knowing that their brother’s life literally rested in his and Doctor Lacroix’s hands. 

Was Athos hurt beyond what even Aramis and the experienced physician could mend? No matter how deeply Porthos wished, he knew the doctor and medic were not miracle workers, and he had to accept that his brother might not survive. He tried not to be pessimistic, but he couldn't sweep the negative thoughts from his mind. _What if Athos is so grievously injured he cannot recover no matter how hard he fights?_

Death, after all, is no respecter of persons.

**Later:**

“Gentlemen, Athos made it through surgery,” the doctor announced to the group, startling everyone. After untold hours of waiting, most of the group had fallen asleep or were nearly asleep—including the king. 

Almost in unison, the group jumped to their feet and rushed toward the doctor. Captain Tréville stood to his feet, but fell back into the chair as a wave of dizziness washed over him; his eyesight dimmed and his ears rang so loudly it drowned out the frantic calls of his men, now crowded around him. 

“Captain! Cap’n, can you hear me?” Porthos shook the captain’s shoulders, getting more worried with each call that brought no response. “I think he was wounded more than ‘e let on; I feel quite a bump ‘ere on the back of his head.” 

“He definitely suffered a blow to the head,” the doctor said as he rubbed the captain’s skull. “I would like to examine him further so I can better determine his injury.”

Captain Tréville slapped the prodding hands away, impatiently. “I’m fine, dammit! I just got knocked over the head when Athos and I were taken hostage—it’s not that serious. I simply stood up too quickly and was overcome with dizziness. It has since passed; I am fine.”

“Well, you are definitely _not_ fine, but your head wound doesn’t look like it would need stitches—which is a good thing, since it’s too late for stitches anyway.”

“Doctor, please, enough about me,” Tréville interrupted, impatiently. “Right now, Athos’ condition takes precedence and is more important. How is he doing?”

“As I stated earlier, Athos came through surgery but…”

“… but what?” D’Artagnan and Porthos echoed nervously. “What’s wrong, Doctor?”

“Well,” the doctor hesitated.

“Can we go see ‘im?” Porthos asked, anxiously peering over Aramis’ shoulder to get a peek into the room. 

“I think you all better sit down,” Aramis whispered grimly. 

“Bloody hell, ‘Mis, I don’t like the sound of ‘at,” Porthos’ tone was filled with dread.

“Once we explain his condition, I will allow you to go in and see him… one at a time,” Doctor Lacroix said, nodding to each man peering back at him nervously. 

“Just tell me, Doctor, is Athos going to make it?” Tréville asked, quietly. “Please don’t lie to me, or embellish his condition any; I want you to be honest with me.”

The doctor let out a long breath as he exchanged a dark glance with Aramis—a grim look that was not lost on the waiting men. “The ball glanced off the bottom of his heart, then traveled between his lungs and lodged itself in a rib. We were able to retrieve the ball successfully; however, the damaging path of the ball was fairly severe.”

The group gasped at the grim news, trading frightened glances around the room. Every man’s eyes were wide with fear, worrying their highly esteemed brother and friend was mortally wounded. 

“There is little more that I can do at this moment,” the doctor added, softly. “The ball punctured the tissue surrounding the heart, but didn’t harm the heart itself, so that is good news. His chest cavity was filled with blood and fluids, which I had to drain, but it’s always possible that a tear was missed; he could have bleeding in the chest without us knowing about it… until it’s too late.”

“Doctor, wha’ in the hell does ‘at mean?” Porthos interrogated sharply. The large Musketeer gave a throaty growl of impatience, his temper rising as he anxiously began pacing.

“Porthos, please, let the doctor explain.” Aramis attempted to soothe his distressed friend with a gentle touch to the shoulder, gazing directly in his eye as a show of support.

“The trauma to his chest was extreme, but I have limited resources to accommodate such a terrible chest wound,” the doctor reported with honesty. “I don’t know if I will be able to _realistically_ save his life.”

“My God, is Athos going to die?” Tréville gasped, shocked at the bleak news of his lieutenant.

“To be honest, I do not know,” the doctor said, sighing. “I believe he should be treated where they have the necessary equipment for such trauma, but even so… only time will tell if Athos will survive the grievous injuries done to him by that lead ball. However, I should warn you…”

“… warn us of what, doctor?” d’Artagnan asked, speaking for the group.

“You must prepare yourselves for the possibility that Athos may not survive the night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffie, dear readers, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'll update again on Monday with chapter 4. Until then, have a great weekend.
> 
>  
> 
> **Place de Grève**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The principal reason why the Place de Grève is remembered is that it was the site of most of the public executions in early Paris. Both the pillory (metal frame having holes for securing the head and hands; used for punishment of public humiliation and abuse—related to the stocks) and the gallows were located there.
> 
> The highest-profile executions took place on the Grève, including the gruesome deaths of the attempted assassins, François Ravaillac, and Robert-François Damiens, who attacked and tried killing King Louis XV in 1757. 
> 
> François Ravaillac was drawn and quartered, but before that happened he was scalded with burning sulphur, molten lead and boiling oil and resin, his flesh was then being torn by pincers.
> 
> Robert-François Damiens was subjected to a torture in which his legs were painfully compressed by devices called “boots” (foot placed between wedges of wood and crushed). He was then tortured with red-hot pincers and was burned with Sulphur, molten wax, molten lead, and boiling oil. He was then harnessed to horses to be dismembered. His limbs did not separate easily, so the officials ordered his tendons to be cut and then the horses were able to dismember him. BUT the man was still ALIVE, so his torso was burned at the stake.
> 
> Well-known bandit Guy Éder de la Fontenelle, was executed on the Grève. This sadistic bandit ransacked the towns of Penmarch and Pont-Croix where he collected an enormous bounty of loot, which he then took to Île Tristan. He forced the nearby inhabitants to demolish their houses to build fortifications for his lair. Besieged by thousands of enraged peasants, he is reported to have killed 1,500 of them in a single day.
> 
> But it wasn’t until he was found guilty of his part in the conspiracy of the Duke of Biron, for the benefit of the Spaniards, that he was condemned to agony on the breaking wheel, where he died, for high treason in 1602.  
> In 1680, the famous French fortune teller, poisoner and alleged sorceress La Voisin, was burned to death on the square. 
> 
> In the words of Victor Hugo, ( _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ ), the Place de Grève was "the symbol of medieval justice… it was brutal, corrupt, and inadequate."


	4. Clinic Blast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You bastards! You can run, but you can’t hide,” the sadistic man snarled as he stepped over the rubble in the medical clinic. “I know where you went.” Jean-Marc gazed west, toward the palace. “Don’t think you are safe from me there, Captain Tréville."

**Doctor Lacroix Clinic, Later at Night:**

Aramis sat beside the bed in the glowing light of a candle, softly whispering words of encouragement to the unmoving patient. He couldn’t take his eyes off of his brother, lying motionless and ghostly pale; if not for the labored rising and falling of his chest, the medic would have thought his brother was a corpse. 

The medic chided himself—if only they had arrived at the gallows sooner. If they had been faster, perhaps Athos wouldn’t be lying so still, clinging to life by a thread. “Had it not been for the king, we wouldn’t have found you at all,” Aramis whispered. “Mon Dieu, when your heart stopped beating, all I could think was that Jean-Marc had won—we had lost you.”

The medic swallowed the sob in his throat, trying hard not to get emotional. He clutched tightly to the limp hand in his own as he absently rubbed his thumb over the knuckles. He gazed at the bandages covering the patient’s chest, save for a small tent of linen and cotton positioned over Athos’ wound. 

“It's an incredible life-saving system the doctor is using on you, Athos,” Aramis said, speaking to the unconscious patient as though he were awake. The medic examined the ingenious system designed to drain fluids from the chest through a thin, tin tube, inserted into the wound, to a glass jar, where the bloody fluids were collected. 

“Doctor Lacroix sutured your wound but left a small space open, allowing for a tube to drain fluids from your chest. This doctor has taken very good care of you; he has already taught me so much. He was even open to one of my suggestions,” Aramis huffed with amazement. “We’ve administered a salt solution to compensate for your blood loss; we’ll give you another treatment tomorrow. You remember that technique I learned from our two favorite physicians, Doctors Molyneux and Berteau? You lost a lot of blood at Blois, but if you could survive that, you can survive this!” 

Aramis shuddered as the bloody images of Athos on the gallows platform flashed through his mind. The sickening amount of blood, squishing under his hands as he compressed the chest, caused his stomach to rebel. He leaned over to the side and coughed, feeling his stomach turning and the bile rising.

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan called out, rushing to the medic’s side. He grabbed a basin and placed it under Aramis just as he lost the battle with his upset stomach. The medic spit out the sour bile and grimaced at the taste left in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“Don’t be sorry, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, squeezing his friend’s shoulder gently. “You’ve been sitting with Athos for a while now. Why don’t you take my seat and get some rest; you look exhausted, mon ami,” he smiled.

“Alright,” Aramis consented without argument. “I’ll close my eyes for a little while, but I want you to wake me if anything changes,” he ordered. “I mean it, d’Artagnan, wake me immediately.”

“Don’t worry, if something happens, I’ll wake you,” d’Artagnan promised. “Now, go on and get some rest.”

Aramis shuffled to the vacant chair then plopped down wearily. He glanced over at Porthos, asleep in the chair beside the bed, and chuckled; he wondered how such a man his size could sleep on a small piece of furniture. The medic leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and fell asleep instantly.

D’Artagnan watched Aramis sleeping and smiled as he heard the soft snores coming from the bone-weary medic. The Gascon turned his attention back to Athos and sighed, unable to wrap his mind around the events of the past day. The young protégé picked up his mentor’s hand, but gasped at the coldness of his long fingers. 

“Why are your hands so cold?” D’Artagnan wrapped his other hand around the chilly fingers then blew his warm breath over them. He continued holding Athos’ hand between his own, occasionally rubbing on the skin to warm it, for what seemed like hours. Finally, he brought the hand up to his lips, softly kissing the fingers before resting the hand back down on the bed.

“Athos, what has Jean-Marc done to you?” the Gascon whispered sadly. He stared at the pale, sickly-looking man beside him and shook his head with disbelief. How could he be the same dynamic, imposing Musketeer he had challenged to the death a few years ago? D’Artagnan smiled as the years of memories played through his mind. He was grateful to have been taken under the wing of one so highly esteemed as Athos, yet he feared his mentor would be taken from him.

“You really have made quite an impression on His Majesty, Athos. The king insisted on staying here at the clinic with us,” d’Artagnan reported with surprise. “He sent a messenger to the palace that he wanted to remain here with us. The king says it breaks up the monotony of his day-to-day duties at the palace, but I think His Majesty believes this to be another one of his adventures.” 

The Gascon quieted as he stared at his friend and brother. “I can’t do this. I can’t lose you, Athos,” d’Artagnan said, choking back the tears. “Please, fight for us… for me. You’re the greatest fighter— the greatest warrior—that I know. Don’t let Jean-Marc beat you! I know you’re stronger than…” the Musketeer couldn’t finish as a heart-wrenching sob swallowed his words.

The young protégé fell forward against the abdomen of his mentor as the tears began to fall. He allowed the sadness and fear to flow from him freely; he let his emotions fall away with the droplets of tears, dampening the blanket. He cried until the tears had dried, leaving him feeling empty and worn. 

D’Artagnan didn’t bother lifting his head, but continued leaning against Athos, relishing the warmth underneath him; as long as he felt heat, he knew his brother still lived. Finally, he sat up to rest his forehead on his hands, elbows resting on the bed, as though he was praying. “I will keep watch over you, my brother,” he resolved.

“I’m not going to let you go without a fight—you know our brothers won’t either—so you may as well get used to us being here until you’re well. You _are_ going to get well again,” d’Artagnan said, sitting up as he dried his face with his sleeves. The Gascon grasped the hand of his mentor and kissed it once more. “I’m never letting you go…”

**Three Days Later:**

An exhausted Aramis sat in the chair, just recently vacated by Porthos. The men had been taking turns keeping vigil beside the bed of their unconscious brother for days; the mood in the sickroom was thick and somber. There had been no change, but yet Athos still held on. As long as their brother’s heart continued to beat they had hope.

Aramis took Athos’ hand and sat quietly, thinking about the harrowing days they had come through; they’d been the worst days of his life. He thought about the life-saving efforts he and the doctor had performed, each a desperate attempt to reverse the devastating trauma done to his friend’s chest.

The chest tube was working brilliantly at keeping fluids from building around Athos’ heart and lungs, while at the same time, preventing infection from setting in; the strange apparatus was ultimately responsible for keeping Athos alive. The saline solution had also done its job at restoring some of the patient’s natural color, but the risk of death wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 

After countless hours of keeping vigil beside the still-unconscious patient, Aramis noticed Athos beginning to stir. “Athos?” the medic asked, alarmed. “Athos, it’s Aramis; I’m here with you. Can you hear me?” he asked, squeezing the hand lightly. 

Athos felt like he had been stabbed in the chest with a dagger pulled from the fire; the pain was sharp and piercing. He resisted waking, especially at the onslaught of pain it brought. As he neared awareness, his moans of pain intensified. His side flared with every movement; his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. The lieutenant threw his eyes open, gasping as the searing pain took his breath away. 

“Jeannn…” Athos rasped, panicking. Sharp flashes of torment burned, causing the lieutenant to cry out as his agony became unbearable. He reached toward his sore chest, wanting to tear out the very part of his body causing him so much pain. 

“Athos, stop!” Aramis ordered, jumping to his feet in alarm. “Stop, or you’ll pull your drainage tube out!” He grabbed hold of Athos’ hands, holding them firmly at his side while he called for help. “Doctor Lacroix, come quickly! Porthos! D’Artagnan, help! Athos is waking up… he’s panicking!”

Porthos and d’Artagnan rushed over to the bed at hearing Aramis’ screams for help. “Athos, no!” they each yelled as they grabbed hold of Athos’ shoulder and pushed down. 

“Athos, stop it right now!” d’Artagnan shouted with authority. “Stop it before you hurt yourself!”

“Athos, I’m here,” Porthos soothed. “I’ve got you, brother.” The big Musketeer moved aside to allow the doctor room, all the while keeping his hands firmly planted on his brother’s shoulder.

“Athos, I’m Doctor Lacroix,” the physician said. “I need you to calm down, son. You were shot, which is why you are experiencing such extreme pain, but you must stop thrashing about. Your squirming could cause the drainage tube to slip out and you’ll tear your stitches—you could start you bleeding again. Do you hear me, son?”

“Athos, it’s Aramis… can you hear me, mon cher?” the medic whispered in his friend’s ear. “Listen, you’re going to be alright, but you need to calm down. I know it hurts, but you’ll only make it worse if you keep this up.” 

“No… hurss…” Athos whispered. In awareness, the pain was too overwhelming. The lieutenant let himself go, allowing his eyes to slide shut. He drifted into blissful unconsciousness where, at last, he felt no more pain. His head lolled to the side and his body went limp. His struggling stopped. 

Gasps of alarm echoed, then the room went eerily quiet. Everyone held their breath, watching with wide eyes as the doctor pressed against Athos’ neck for a pulse.

“I have a pulse,” the doctor said, nodding to the men. “He has only lost consciousness, which is for the best. We cannot have him thrashing about and tearing out his stitches; he will only worsen his condition.” 

“Mon Dieu,” Aramis said, crossing himself. He let out a long breath and then bent over at the waist with his hands planted on his knees. “I didn’t think he would wake up like that—not like that.”

“Bloody hell, neither did I,” Porthos said, wiping at his brow with his handkerchief. “When he passed out, I thought for a minute that he was…”

“So did I,” d’Artagnan interjected, assuming Porthos’ train of thought. The Gascon scrubbed a hand down his face, but left the hand resting over his partially open mouth. “His pain must be excruciating.”

“Thank God, he’s sleeping,” Captain Tréville whispered. “The pain is too much for him yet.” The older man wearily leaned his forehead against the wall, holding to the door jamb so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Captain Tréville, you should be resting!” Doctor Lacroix scolded. “You shouldn’t be on your feet quite yet.”

“I’m fine…”

“Doctor, is Athos going to be alright?” D’Artagnan cut to the chase. He anxiously stared at his mentor, his heart still racing in his chest.

“Athos has been unconscious for a few days now; it’s actually a good sign that he’s starting to come around. The sharpness in pain roused him to awareness, but yet that pain was so extreme his body couldn’t deal with it,” Doctor Lacroix stated. “I am quite grateful that he regained consciousness, even if it was a short time. It is indeed a good sign.”

“Yes, well,” Aramis grumbled, “if he wakes up panicked like that again, we may not be so grateful. Athos is a fighter, as he has proven already. He is strong and stubborn, but even Athos has his limits. His body can’t always keep up with his headstrong will.”

“He appears to be resting now, though there is no telling when he might wake up again,” the doctor reported. The older man looked around the crowded room and frowned. “There are too many people in here; it is too disruptive to the patient.”

“We are not leaving!” d’Artagnan protested, stubbornly. “Athos could wake up again in severe pain; he needs to know that we’re here _with_ him if he panics. I want to be with him.”

“And so do I,” Aramis stated firmly. “If he’s is in severe pain, then I need to know about it. If he starting to come around, well, we all want to be with him. Besides, Athos needs us.”

“That’s right, Doc, there’s no way I’m leaving, so don’t ask,” Porthos said, resolutely.

“Alright, that’s enough, gentlemen,” the captain ordered. “Doctor, my men are very close—closer than most brothers. Please allow them to sit quietly in the room, just in case Athos awakens.”

“Fine, Captain, they can stay,” the doctor relented. “But everyone must remain quiet and not wake the patient; Athos needs his rest.”

“They will be quiet,” the king interrupted, making heads turn toward the doorway. “I’ll make sure they comply with your orders, Doctor.”

“Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville sighed. “You shouldn’t still be here, Sire. Surely, you would be more comfortable at the palace, Your Majesty.”

“Nonsense!” the king waved off the captain with a smile. “The doctor has allowed me use of his apartment, so I am well rested. I sent word to the palace of my whereabouts, and informed them that I would be here a while longer. I would be utterly useless at the palace; I am simply beside myself with worry. I would much rather be here with you—with my men—than back at the palace listening to reports of the queen’s latest tea party. I want to be here with you,” he pouted.

The Musketeers were stunned into silence, not sure how to respond. The men never expected the king to show such concern; they were used to the monarch being more solemn and formal. 

“Your Majesty…” Tréville began to protest, but stopped short. The captain already had this discussion with the king and it was fruitless. The stubborn monarch always did what he wanted anyway, regardless of the captain’s protests.

“Good, it’s settled then,” the king said happily. “I will join the rest of you in here and keep watch from this corner,” he pointed. 

“Yes, Your Majesty, I guess it is settled,” Captain Tréville sighed, tipping his head respectfully. “Doctor, we will all be staying with Athos, it appears,” he declared. “Should he need us, in any manner, we’ll be right here with him.”

**Hours Later:**

“Is that the king snoring or the captain?” d’Artagnan asked his two brothers, suppressing a giggle.

“Well, the captain has an excuse,” Aramis whispered quietly. “With that head wound of his, I’m surprised he’s managed so well these last few days. I really wish we could have treated his wound sooner.”

“Better yet, if the head wound hadn’t happened in the first place,” Porthos grumbled. “Damn that Jean-Marc; if I ever get my hands on him…”

Suddenly, the building rocked with a violent explosion, sending debris of stone, mortar, glass and shrapnel flying through the air like missiles. The group of men fell off their chairs as the concussion of the explosion sent a wave of acrid, hot air pushing through the room. 

“Protect the king!” Captain Tréville yelled to Porthos over the roaring noise in the next room.

~§~

“Your Majesty, are you hurt?” Porthos asked, after the dust had settled. The king was lying on the floor, covered with dust and small chunks of debris; his chair had landed across his body, with the back resting against the monarch’s head. “Mon Dieu, Your Majesty, are you hurt?”

“Of course I am hurt!” retorted the king. “I hit my head on the floor; I think my head is bleeding!” King Louis rubbed all around his head, checking for blood, but his fingers came back clean.

“You’re not bleeding, Your Majesty, thank God,” Porthos shook his head with relief. “How is Athos, dammit?” he asked, but no one answered. The large Musketeer stood to check on his unconscious friend, fearing what he might find. Athos was already critically injured… and now this?

Strangely enough, earlier that day the king had moved from his perch in the back corner of the room to sit beside Athos. A few hours later, the doctor had moved a large table in the room, which he filled with food and drink, and had placed it at the foot of Athos’ bed. It appeared the prophetic moves had saved the lives of both Athos and His Majesty.

“Dear God, what the hell happened?” Aramis cried out. The medic groaned as he pushed aside a large beam lying across his chest so he could sit up. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, wincing as he moved large pieces of stone from his legs and torso. “Mon Dieu, how is Athos?”

“Athos has some debris on ‘im from the blast, but it appears that large table just saved him from most of the impact… and His Majesty too!” Porthos uttered with surprise. “Where is the captain?”

“I’m here, Porthos,” the captain replied from under a pile of rubble. “I am fine, just take care of His Majesty and Athos.”

“I am not too badly injured, Captain,” the king said, now sitting up on the floor.

“What about d’Artagnan?” the captain asked. “D’Artagnan, where are you?”

“I’m here, Captain,” d’Artagnan called from under his chair and chunks of debris. “Merde, I think I got hit in the head with a piece of… something.”

“D’Artagnan, are you alright?” Aramis asked, untangling himself. He rushed to kneel beside his youngest brother, shoving fallen debris out of the way. The medic frowned at the stream of blood running down the Gascon’s face, but let out a relieved breath at seeing the cut wasn’t too deep. “We will have to stitch that up…”

“Never mind me, what about Athos?” d’Artagnan inquired. “Is Athos alright? Is he hurt worse?” 

“Slow down, mon ami,” Aramis replied. “I’ll go check on Athos if you’re sure you’re alright.” The medic waited for a nod before turning his attention to the unconscious patient. He worked with Porthos at brushing away the dust and particles of debris from Athos’ face and body. 

“Thank God, you pulled ‘at blanket over ‘im earlier,” Porthos uttered with relief. “It protected his little chest tent—the tube is still intact! I never thought I would be so grateful for Athos bein’ cold.”

“Me either!” Aramis’ long fingers snaked around Athos’ neck then pressed down on the carotid artery, waiting for a heartbeat. 

“Is he alright?” the Gascon dared to ask.

“Yes, I have a pulse,” Aramis reported with relief to the group. “Thank God!”

“Thank God, indeed,” the king said. After a brief pause, he added, "Did someone just try to blow us up?” 

“Jean-Marc knows we’re here!” Captain Tréville exclaimed. He rushed to the doorway and gasped at the severity of damage done to the other half of the clinic. “Doctor? Where is the doctor?” he wondered at seeing the waiting room and parlor destroyed. “Damn, this has to be Jean-Marc’s handiwork; no one else would have reason to bomb this clinic. We have to think of His Majesty’s safety first—above all else. We must get him back to the palace at once!”

“Cap’n, if Jean-Marc is behind this,” Porthos paused, “how are we going to get the king out of here without ‘at bastard aimin’ at us?”

“Is there anyone well enough to ride to the palace?” the captain inquired. “It’s not that far, perhaps less than one thousand paces, but we need a carriage sent to our location. We _have_ to move His Majesty out of here… and we’re also going to have to move Athos.”

“Captain, you can’t be serious!” Aramis said, horrified. “He shouldn’t be moved in his condition; he just had chest surgery!”

“We have no choice, Aramis!” the captain snapped. “Athos _has_ to be moved to a more secure location; Jean-Marc will certainly be back to check on the damage. That man is so hell-bent on revenge, he won’t stop until either Athos, the king, or myself—or all of us—are dead!”

“I’ll ride to the palace,” d’Artagnan called out. “It’s not that far, so it should only take a few minutes.”

“I’ll go with you,” Porthos offered. “You’ll be safer wit’ someone watchin’ your back.”

“Hello?” a man called into the room. “Is there anyone hurt in here?”

The startled Musketeers immediately drew their pistols and trained them on the stranger moving through the mounds of debris. “Who are you and what do you want?” Porthos growled.

“Whoa, hold on… I just wanted to see if there was anyone hurt!” yelled the man. “I just dropped off my beef at the butchery shop around the corner and heard the terrible explosion—I meant no harm!”

“Do you have a wagon with a canvas covering?” Tréville asked the man.

“Well, yes, but…”

“Good, give us your coat and hat,” the captain ordered. The captain took the items from the man and gave them to King Louis. “Put these on, Your Majesty. I would feel better if you were disguised before we move you out to the wagon; he might be watching us. Would you be so kind to drive His Majesty to the palace?” Captain Tréville asked the driver. “D’Artagnan and I will be coming along as his security.” 

“Yes, of course,” the man replied. “I’ll do anything for His Majesty!”

“I’ll ride in the back with you, Your Majesty,” Tréville said as he covered the monarch under a pile of blankets. D’Artagnan sat next to the driver up front with his pistol ready, watching for the suspect, Jean-Marc. The wagon rolled home toward Palais du Louvre, where His Majesty would be kept under watch, should the bandit strike again.

“Bloody hell,” Porthos huffed angrily. “Now, what do we do about Athos?” 

“He cannot ride in a wagon, that’s for sure,” Aramis replied, adamantly. “He wouldn’t survive the trip—even the short ride to the palace. I need not remind you of the trip home from Chamarande,” he shuddered. “No, we need to look for a carriage, at the very least.”

“I’ll go look for one,” Porthos said as he left the room.

“Athos, I need you to listen to me, brother,” Aramis said as he began preparing the patient to leave. He carefully removed the drainage tube then packed a wad of cotton tightly around the wound; he finished by wrapping the area with a secure bandage. “That’s going to have to hold until we get to the palace. We have no other choice, but… Madre de Dios, I don’t like this!” The medic ran a shaking hand through his dusty hair. “How much more does Athos have to endure, dammit?” he yelled up at the ceiling.

Just then, the large Musketeer returned and rushed into the room. “I’ve found a carriage! Let’s go,” he called, “let’s get Athos loaded up and out of here. Quickly, before Jean-Marc comes lookin’ for us!”

“Dammit, Athos shouldn’t be traveling!” Aramis objected angrily. “I know he can’t stay here, but the ride to the palace is too dangerous—moving him could kill him.”

“I know ‘at Aramis,” Porthos said, sadly. “But right now, we don’t have a choice; Athos _has_ to be moved. You know the cap’n is right, Jean-Marc will be back.”

“Dammit to hell, I don’t like this—not one damn bit!” Aramis grumbled. “Merde!” he cursed, slapping his knee in resignation. 

“I don’t like it one damn bit either, Aramis,” Porthos agreed. “But we’ll be extra careful with ‘im!”

“I’m scared, Porthos,” Aramis hesitated at the bedside. “Athos has already suffered through so much,” he sighed. “So help me, if anything happens to Athos because we move him, I swear, I will rip Jean-Marc apart with my bare hands!”

“And I’ll help you rip ‘im apart!” Porthos growled. Turning back to Athos, he furrowed his brow with concern. “Should I just pick ‘im up?” he asked, not sure of what to do.

“If only we had a stretcher and could keep him flat on his back…” the medic’s voice trailed as he looked around the room, but found nothing they could use. 

“Even if we had a stretcher, the carriage isn’t wide enough,” Porthos disputed impatiently. “Bloody hell, we’ve got to go!” The big man gently scooped Athos into his arms, trying his best to keep the patient’s torso flat. He followed behind Aramis, who helped guide the large Musketeer over the debris.

Aramis ran ahead to the carriage and opened the door. “Easy now,” the medic said as he continued guiding Porthos along. “Do you need me to take him while you get in?”

“No, I can do this without jostling ‘im too much,” Porthos said, grunting as he stepped up with his armload. He shuffled sideways into the carriage, easing his way in, while ever mindful of the precious cargo in his arms. He finally maneuvered slowly down onto the seat, panting from exertion; large drops of sweat streamed down his face.

“Are you alright, Porthos?” Aramis inquired with worry. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos breathed heavily. “Let’s get out o’ here!”

“Yes, let’s go,” Aramis said. The medic banged on the roof to signal the driver they were ready to roll. “Remember to take it real slow and easy,” he told the driver.

Porthos held Athos flat across his lap, doing his best to cushion against the bumps and bounces in the road. Aramis knelt in front of the seat, keeping his fingers on the patient’s neck, monitoring his pulse. 

Soon, the carriage pulled onto the long, narrow road leading to the front of the elegant Palais du Louvre. When the carriage came to a stop, Aramis suddenly gasped. “Oh God, I can’t feel his pulse!”

*****

“You bastards! You can run, but you can’t hide,” the sadistic man snarled as he stepped over the rubble in the medical clinic. “I know where you went.”

Jean-Marc gazed west, toward the palace. “Don’t think you are safe from me there, Captain Tréville. Perhaps I should up the stakes and hit the king where it _really_ hurts. You got away from me this time, boys, but I’m not finished with you yet. I have another plan in mind… and it’s going to be a blast!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my longtime readers, you may recognize some familiar names/places in this story. Did you catch the references from my early story _Promises to Keep_ with the Doctors Molyneux and Berteau? Do you remember the special “technique” with the saline solution to which Aramis is referring to? 
> 
> I also mentioned Chamarande, which is taken from my story _Breathing._ If you remember, after Athos was seriously wounded ( _Double Trouble_ ), he was returned to the garrison in the back of a wagon from the Château de Chamarande.
> 
> Now, I am including these notes about the chest tube for those who otherwise might not believe that this procedure was actually practiced, even well before the 17th century!! Many people do not give the physicians and scientists of that day due credit, as many believe that we in the 21st century have the exclusives to intelligent, innovative medicinal techniques… but research proves otherwise. Many of these brilliant physicians were way ahead of their time, all they were lacking was the technology to practice as the doctors do today. They had to make do with the knowledge and means of their time, but their extensive notes and experience greatly influenced the advancement of medicine today. 
> 
> The practice of draining fluids from the chest (thoracic cavity) has been documented for thousands of years. Today, for cardiothoracic surgeons it is a basic skill. There is little thought given to the gradual progression of this skill over the course of centuries that has brought us to our current understanding in the management of the chest tube.  
> The first description of thoracostomy (small incision in the chest to insert a tube) begins with Greek physician, Hippocrates (c. 460-370 B.C). His written instructions included “Insert a hollow tin drainage tube to remove fluids, pus, blood, and leaving it in place until the cavity is completely dried out.”
> 
> The procedure was recorded in Medicine in the Crusades in which drainage of fluids (pus) facilitated healing of a chest wound after Baldwin I of Jerusalem (c. 1058-1118) was struck by a lance.  
> A clear mention of a tube thoracostomy was in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, written between 1210 and 1220. He describes a knight named Gawan, who has sustained a chest wound in a joust.
> 
> There lay a man pierced through,  
> with his blood rushing inward…  
> “I could keep this knight from dying  
> and I feel sure I could save him  
> if I had a reed,  
> You would soon see him and hear  
> him in health, because  
> he is not mortally wounded.  
> The blood is only pressing on his heart.”  
> He grasped a branch of the linden tree,  
> slipped the bark off like a tube –  
> he was no fool in the matter of wounds –  
> and inserted it into the body through the wound.  
> Then he bade the woman suck on it  
> until blood flowed toward her.  
> The hero’s strength revived so that he could speak and talk again.” 
> 
> In the 14th century, leading French surgeon/physician, Guy de Chauliac (1300 – 25 July 1368), used the technique for management of chest trauma and made great advancements of the procedure. He believed in treatment of penetrating thoracic wounds by using “tents” and drains (hollow tin tube) to allow blood and decaying organic materials to escape. He suggested the use of a tent to cover the wound, with wads of cotton to keep the wound dry, all the while keeping the thin, hollow tin tube in place. Further, daily irrigation of warm wine or a honey/water mixture was collected and measured for four or five days, until the fluid collected was clear. Irrigation was halted, the tent and tube was left in place; the wound was dressed with cotton to absorb residual drainage. Smaller tents and cotton dressings, with shorter tubes, were used until the patient was healed 
> 
> Fascinating Stuff!!


	5. The Ladies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain, thank God I’ve found you!” King Louis shouted. The king grabbed the captain frantically on both shoulders, gasping for breath in near panic. “It’s the Petite Galerie… a bomb… the building, some of it’s gone! The queen’s apartment is there!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay here on AO3, dear readers. I will have the rest of this story updated regularly now to finish it up. Thank you for your patience!

**Le Palais du Louvre:**

“Porthos, keep Athos flat across your lap for a moment—do not move!” Aramis ordered. The medic placed his ear over Athos’ chest to listen and then cursed under his breath. As he continued to listen, the lines on his brow creased with shadows of worry and fear. 

“What is it, Aramis?” Porthos asked anxiously. “Did ‘is heart stop?”

“No, his heart didn’t stop, but he does have an irregular heartbeat,” Aramis reported, lifting his head to meet Porthos’ frightened eyes. “First it’s racing and then it slows, almost stopping. Dammit, I _knew_ this would happen if we moved him!” 

“An irregular heartbeat?” Porthos repeated with worry. “What in the world can you do for ‘im?”

“Pressure points!” Aramis blurted, his eyes beaming with hope. 

“Pressure points?” Porthos repeated with confusion.

“Yes, if I apply pressure on certain key points on the chest, I can influence his heart rhythm,” Aramis stated, matter-of-factly. The medic ran his fingers under the collarbone, searching for the critical pressure points. “Dammit!” he cursed with frustration. 

“Aramis, are you sure…”

“Shh, let me work,” Aramis interrupted. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before running his fingers along collarbone toward the sternum, searching. “Found them!” he declared, readying his fingers. The medic applied pressure with his fingertips on two hollow areas beside the sternum, all the while quietly counting to himself for one minute. “Come on, Athos,” he said finally. He leaned over the chest to listen, but shook his head. 

“There’s a second pressure point just under the breastbone…” Aramis murmured, his voice trailing. The medic ran his fingers to the bottom of the sternum and then measured two spaces with his thumbs; at finding the critical spot, he applied pressure with his fingertips. 

“What the bloody hell does ‘at do?” Porthos cried out. “Where did you learn this?”

“It’s a proven treatment from the Far East,” Aramis answered, without looking up. “I read the medical journals, mon ami. There are critical points around our breastbone that, when hard pressure it applied, work wonders at reducing heart palpitations… that is an irregular heartbeat,” he clarified. He clenched his teeth and began reapplying pressure under the sternum, stopping after a minute to listen to the heartbeat.

“Hold on, let me check ‘is pulse,” Porthos volunteered. The large Musketeer reached his fingers around Athos’ neck and waited. “I think I feel a steady pulse… hold on…” 

“What is going on in here?” Captain Tréville asked, sticking his head into the carriage. “The king’s personal physician is waiting to tend to Athos inside…”

“It’s Athos, I thought his heart had stopped when we first arrived,” Aramis began, “but his heart didn’t stop, it’s fluctuating and irregular, probably from the stress of moving him too soon. This couldn’t wait, Captain, I had to get his heartbeat under control.”

“I ‘ave a steady pulse, Aramis!” Porthos called out with excitement. The large man leaned back against the seat and heaved a sigh of relief. He sat forward to whisper in Athos’ ear, “Don’t you leave us, mon cher! You keep fightin’ for us, brother.” 

“Let me check him, Porthos,” Aramis said, softly. He placed his head over Athos’ chest and sighed with relief at hearing the steady heartbeat in his ear. “Thank God, thank God, thank God…”

“Aramis, is he ready to be moved inside?” Captain Tréville asked, seeing the immediate danger had passed. “Let us get Athos up to the doctor so he can take care of him, son.” 

“I’ll carry ‘im,” Porthos offered, “but I’ll need help gettin’ out through that narrow door.”

“We’ll guide you out, mon ami,” Aramis said. He stepped from the carriage to wait with the captain, each ready to carefully guide the big Musketeer out with his precious load. “Just pick him up gently and then shuffle out the same way you shuffled in—let us guide you.”

Once the large Musketeer was clear of the carriage, he followed Captain Tréville and Aramis into the palace, where they hoped Athos wouldn’t have to be moved again until he had recovered.

**Palais du Louvre, Next Day:**

“Captain Tréville, it has been days since Athos was injured,” the king announced. “You cannot continue to sit by his bedside while neglecting your duty as captain of the Musketeers; it is time you returned to the garrison. You will see to the rest of your men, Captain, and you will go immediately.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville replied, bowing respectfully. “I will leave for the garrison at once, Sire.”

*****

“Captain, where are you going?” d’Artagnan asked as they met in the long hallway. “Is Athos alright? Is something wrong?”

“No, there is nothing wrong,” Captain Tréville replied. He had hoped to avoid commentary, but he did have obligations as captain to more than just one Musketeer. “I must report back to the garrison,” he paused, “I have been away too long. There has been no change with Athos and I cannot wait around until he regains consciousness, gentlemen.” 

“Yes, but, Captain…” Aramis protested.

“No, Aramis,” Captain Tréville retorted. “I must see to my duties as captain. For now, you may continue tending to Athos, but that also might come to an end. Athos is a patient of the king’s own personal physician with a staff of nurses at his disposal… we are only getting in the way.”

“Now, Cap’n, you know that just isn’t true, sir,” Porthos countered firmly.

“We are seeing to the care of the king’s lieutenant,” Aramis argued. “Does that not count for anything? When Athos regains consciousness, he would want to awaken to familiar faces… you know that, Captain. Remember what happened the last time he awoke in such pain?”

“Of course, I remember, Aramis,” the captain whispered sharply. “But I also have a duty to the other men of the regiment, and to His Majesty,” he concluded, turning on his heel to leave. 

“Captain, we will use any remaining leave we have left to stay here with Athos, should the king order us back on duty,” d’Artagnan called after his commander. “We are not leaving Athos here alone with strangers.”

“D’Artagnan…” the captain scolded but was cut off as the palace suddenly shook from an explosion somewhere nearby. The men instinctively ducked low and shielded their heads, expecting debris to fly at them as had happened at the clinic.

“Mon Dieu, what was that?” d’Artagnan cried out, scrambling to his feet.

“Good God, that was an explosion at the far end of the palace,” Captain Tréville uttered with horror. “We must find His Majesty,” he ordered, “and the queen!” The captain ran down the hall with his three Musketeers following directly on his heels.

~§~

The men turned the corner and nearly collided in the hallway with His Majesty as he was running to find help.

“Captain, thank God I’ve found you!” King Louis shouted. The king grabbed the captain frantically on both shoulders, gasping for breath in near panic. “It’s the Petite Galerie… a bomb… the building, some of it’s gone! The queen’s apartment is there!”

“Oh no!” Aramis blurted with alarm. The medic bit his lip to stop any further reaction, but his fear for the queen was clearly evident in his eyes.

“Captain, you must help my queen!” King Louis shrieked. “Please, we must find her!”

“Your Majesty, we will find the queen,” Captain Tréville assured as he looked to his men, each giving their captain a confirming nod.

“I want every able-bodied man over there looking for my queen!” the king ordered. “I will send someone to the garrison to gather up more men to help, but I want my wife found!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville replied with a bow. “You men, follow me,” he ordered the Musketeers.

The group stopped short on the stairs when they crossed paths with Milady, who was running up toward the apartment. “Part of the queen’s apartments… it’s nothing but rubble!”

“Yes, we’re heading over there now,” the captain replied over his shoulder, resuming his descent down the stairs with the others.

“Is anyone sitting with Athos?” Milady called out after the departing Musketeers. 

Aramis let the others go on ahead without him and then turned back to Milady. “Would you sit with Athos while we’re gone?” he asked. “If anything happens, or if Athos should awaken, be sure to call his nurses and they’ll take care of him.”

“Of course, I would be happy to sit with Athos,” Milady replied with a warm smile. She watched as Aramis ran down the steps to catch up to his captain and brothers; she continued watching until the Musketeer disappeared from view.

Milady took a deep breath before ascending the remaining stairs toward the king’s apartments. Stopping outside the set of doors, she once again took a deep breath before going inside and making her way to the patient’s room. She stopped short as her eyes fell on the familiar figure in the bed.

“Oh, Athos,” Milady gasped. “My God, what has happened to you?” For a moment, the woman stood frozen in place; she stared with disbelief at the man she once loved, so still and seemingly lifeless. She willed her feet to move, slowly approaching the bed while never taking her eyes off her husband. 

“You’re so pale,” Milady commented, noting the ghostly-white skin contrasting against the dark curls plastered to his face. She looked down at the mass of bandages, cotton and tubing protruding from his chest and gasped, despite herself. “Oh God, Athos…”

Milady pulled up a chair and fell into it almost bonelessly, without ever removing her eyes the patient. She moved the chair until she could move no closer and then picked up his cool, limp hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m here, my husband.”

She sat holding her husband’s hand without speaking a word, getting lost in the memories of happier days when they were young, foolish and in love. Milady gently caressed Athos’ cheek and stroked his soft beard. Her slender fingers stopped caressing as she lightly chuckled, “When was the last time you had a trim?” 

“You certainly have seen better days,” Milady teased, trying to lighten her mood. She gazed at Athos, allowing her eyes to slowly rove over the battered, unconscious body of her husband; all attempts to remain lighthearted disappeared as her brow creased with emotion and her eyes filled with tears.

She gently squeezed the hand held tightly her own, struggling to keep the lump in her throat from morphing into a sob. “Oh, Olivier, what has happened to you… to us?” Milady stroked Athos’ forehead, tenderly brushing aside the sweat-soaked hair. “You never could keep your hair out of your eyes,” she laughed through the tears.

“If only things could have turned out differently between us,” Milady whispered. “If only we could have remained the same young, euphoric couple—we were so in love. We were made for each other, at least I thought so at the time. I was so enamored of you,” she sighed. 

“I wish what happened with Thomas…” her voice trailed as she stared into the distance. Milady shuddered as her mind took her back to la Fère—the struggling, the fight, the blood. She cringed, remembering the moment vividly when she dropped the bloody knife from her hand as she heard her husband approaching.

“If only I could take it all back,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Don’t you think that I would? Don’t you think that I would do it all differently for the both of us... for you?”

“Ah, but now look at you,” she whispered, fingering the angry red marks, freshly scarring his neck. “Is this from the rope they put around your neck at la Place de Grève? How ironic that you should end up with a scar like mine, yet I would never have wished this scar on you, Athos.”

“Look at what you have become since we… well, since then,” Milady said, smiling proudly. “I never would have imagined you as a King’s Musketeer, but I always knew there was greatness in you.”

Milady paused and then remained quiet for some time. She listened to the shouting outside in the courtyard and frowned as images of the partially ruined Petite Galerie flashed through her mind. “I hope they find her,” she whispered.

“You should be out there with your brothers,” she said, breaking the silence. “You always were a man of honor, putting duty above all else—including me,” Milady scoffed. 

“Even so, you have risen through the ranks to become the captain’s right-hand man. You are the greatest swordsman in all of France—a truly fine soldier—and yet I should not be surprised.”

“When we fell in love, we were but children; we had our entire futures ahead of us. Nothing else in the world mattered—it was only you and me,” she smiled, remembering.

“Sometimes, I wish we could go back and start over again, correct the mistakes that we made. We could make it work between us; I know we could make it work!”

“I wonder what our lives together would have been _if_ we had worked things out,” Milady said, sighing sadly. Once again, she gazed into the distance as her mind replayed scenes from their lives together. 

“Perhaps we could have raised a family,” she whispered. “I always wanted a son; I would have named our son, Thomas Olivier. Could you picture me as a mother, Olivier?” Milady asked. She closed her eyes and imagined herself holding their son in her arms; she laughed as she pictured her husband bouncing a little girl on his lap. “I could see you with a daughter, caring for her so tenderly, and her looking back at you with such love; she would have loved her Papa dearly.”

“Why?” Milady’s voice cracked. “Why did our love have to die? Why couldn’t we have been happy… why couldn’t we have been a family? Oh, God, why?”

Milady leaned over Athos’ shoulder, resting her head against her husband’s forehead, and finally released her emotions. Her body shook with heart-wrenching sobs until her tears dripped onto his cheeks and rolled, as though they were his own, down his face and into his beard.

“Anne…”

Milady gasped at the voice and sat straight up, looking down at her husband with surprise. She wondered if she was imagining things, though she was certain she had heard his voice. _Did I really hear him call my name?_ she thought. She dried her tear-filled eyes and stared, looking for signs of awareness but saw nothing. “I must be imagining things.”

“Annnne…”

“Olivier!” she exclaimed “Olivier, you’re awake! Oh, God…” Milady gasped, thinking of her heartfelt revelations spoken when she thought her husband couldn’t hear; she worried that she had said too much. “How much did you hear?” 

_Please tell me you didn’t hear everything I said._

“We can’t… change the… passst,” Athos slurred. 

“I know, but…” Milady covered her mouth, holding back a sob. “I just wish…”

“I wisshhh… toooooo,” Athos whispered as he slipped into the darkness once more. 

Milady huffed with surprise, her jaw slackened as she mulled over what Athos had just said to her. She reached over to tenderly wipe away the tears clinging to the corners of his closed eyes. 

“Did you really mean that, Athos?” she asked, holding her breath as though expecting him to answer. “Do you really wish…?” she stopped short. “Perhaps you are fevered and not in your right state of mind. You probably will not remember what you said, but I always will. I will never forget, my love.”

Milady kissed Athos on the forehead. She then moved lower to plant a soft kiss on his lips and lingered a moment, keeping their lips pressed together until she finally pulled back with a sigh. “I’ll stay by your side as long as you need me, Athos. I will not leave you, I promise.”

Milady blinked as the hint of a smile ghosted across his face, the corner of his lips curling upward. “Sleep, my husband, just sleep.” 

**Petite Galerie, Queen’s Apartment:**

“Mon Dieu!” Captain Tréville gasped as he viewed the destruction of the Pavillon du Roi. The ornate, four-story block center of the Petite Galerie was not harmed, but to the right of the entrance, much of the stone and brick façade lay in ruin.

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis muttered under his breath as he crossed himself. His wide eyes surveyed the frightening damage done to the building where the queen had been staying. “We’re going to need help digging through all this rubble,” he said, his mouth agape with shock.

“I sent for more men at the garrison; they should be arriving here soon,” the king stated. “In the meantime, let’s find my queen!” Louis bent over, picked up a large stone and threw it aside. He picked up another and tossed it aside, but then stopped to wipe his brow as it was already damp with perspiration.

“Your Majesty, please, you shouldn’t be doing this,” Captain Tréville offered. The captain placed a gentle hand on the king’s shoulder to stay him from picking up more stones. “Sire, if you please, my men and I will dig through this rubble, so you don’t have to. I promise you, we will not stop digging until we find Her Majesty.”

“I know that some may not believe that I am a man with feelings—a man with a heart—but I _do_ have feelings,” the king continued, “and despite what you may think, I do love my wife.” King Louis’ lips quivered briefly, but then the rare reveal of emotion was over. His Majesty cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and began picking up stones without saying another word.

“Let’s get to work, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville said to the men softly. 

“Yes, sir,” the Musketeers said, their voices blending. The men tirelessly picked through the rubble, tossing aside stones as they progressed to the front entrance. Soon, the site was bustling with people offering to help from nearby shops and homes, each wanting to find their beloved queen.

As the company of Musketeers arrived from the garrison, bringing with them wagons full of tools for digging and wheelbarrows for hauling debris, the large crowd of volunteers set to work at making their way through the rubble. It didn’t take long before they reached the long, broad hallway of the gallery.

“Aw, bloody hell,” Porthos cursed under his breath at seeing the destruction. “This is almost worse than outside!”

The exquisite tiled flooring was in ruins, devastatingly broken and covered in dust and debris. Statues were blown apart, their heads and limbs now scattered among the rubble. Giant oil paintings were left crumpled on the floor, the golden frames broken and canvases torn; the expensive masterpieces were reduced to worthless colored cloth, torn and stained by dust. 

“Look at the ruins of my beautiful palace,” the king lamented. “My art… my statues…”

“Your Majesty, these _things_ can be replaced,” Tréville paused, “your queen cannot. Perhaps we can try to salvage some things later on, but right now we need to find the queen.”

“Of course, you are right, Captain,” the king agreed. “I can always purchase more artwork—I was growing bored with them anyway,” he said, waving his hand nonchalantly. “I most certainly will have to rebuild this wing. Yes, I will make it more magnificent than ever!”

The Musketeers exchanged glances, each feeling unsettled at His Majesty’s disregard for the hard-earned taxpayers' money being so blatantly wasted. Nevertheless, the men held their tongues, knowing they had no right to question the king in such matters.

The group slowly made their way toward the stairs, moving aside large stones and wreckage so they could proceed upstairs to the apartments. Once upstairs, the group let out collective sighs at seeing the wreckage was not as severe as the main floor, but their hearts sank as they came upon the rubble blocking the entrance to the queen’s apartment.

~§~

“Mmm, my back hurts,” d’Artagnan complained after removing debris for some time. He fixed his hands on his hips and then leaned backward in attempt to stretch out his sore back muscles. “Mon Dieu, how much more rubble do we have to move?”

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked with concern. The medic placed his hand on the Gascon’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “This has been one hell of a day,” he said, stretching his own back out.

“That’s an understatement, mon ami,” d’Artagnan huffed with disgust.

After digging through the rubble—removing wood, rocks and stones of every size—the rescuers were finally able to open the door to the queen’s apartment. The men stopped in their tracks as they viewed the broken glass, large stone rubble, and the myriad of criss-crossed beams filling the room.

“Oh, my… Your Majesty, can you hear me?” Captain Tréville called out through cupped hands. 

“My darling wife,” the king shouted pleadingly. “Please, my queen, answer us!”

“I’m over here!” Queen Anne called from somewhere underneath the rubble. The voice sounded as though it came from near the bedroom in the back, though they couldn’t be certain.

“Your Majesty!” Aramis called out toward the back of the room. “Say something again so we can locate you. Are you hurt, Your Majesty?”

“No, I’m not hurt… not really,” Anne answered. “There’s a beam, it fell across my hips so I can’t move. My head is bleeding, but it’s nothing serious,” she assured. “I got hit with debris… it was just flying everywhere and raining down from the ceiling!”

“Yes, Your Majesty, there is quite a bit of debris from the explosion,” Captain Tréville explained with a glance to His Majesty. “But as long as you are not seriously hurt, that is all that matters.”

“You sound close by,” the queen called out. “How much longer until you can get me out? This beam is beginning to hurt.”

“Your Majesty, try not to move,” d’Artagnan suddenly warned. “Just lie as still as possible so you don’t shift the debris pile,” he instructed. “Listen to me, everyone, it is important that we not move _anything_ else until we assess how the wreckage is positioned. Should someone remove a support beam, it could send debris raining down on top of the queen. Let me take a look at this first.”

“D’Artagnan, I never figured you to be a craftsman,” King Louis said with interest. “How do you know such things?”

“I grew up on a farm in Gascony,” d’Artagnan replied. “My father let me help him with repairs on our outbuildings; we also would help our neighbors with the upkeep of their outbuildings as well. My father was a skilled craftsman, so I learned from him.”

“Very good then,” King Louis said, his eyes brightening. “I place you in charge of these efforts to remove all this debris,” he announced with a large smile. “Everyone _will_ listen to your instructions, as I trust you have the queen’s safety as your top priority. The queen’s life is in your hands, d’Artagnan!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan replied, swallowing hard. _Great, nothing like the pressure of Her Majesty’s life being solely in my hands_ he thought. The Gascon walked around the rubble, stepping over wood and stone as he studied the wreckage; he nodded with satisfaction at the plan formulating in his mind. 

“It appears the queen is in a pocket between this mound and that other mound of rubble closer to her,” d’Artagnan reported, pointing to the ruins as he spoke. “If we can remove this wreckage here on the left, we should be able to reach Her Majesty safely.” 

The mass of volunteers set to work at removing the debris, stone by stone, and depositing all of it near the back wall. As more of the rubble was removed, the pocket of open space revealed a previously hidden network of fallen beams and stone. “Oh no,” d’Artagnan groaned, his heart sinking at the sight. 

“I see Her Majesty!” Porthos called out, pointing to her location. “She’s behind those beams.”

“ _Nobody_ move _anything_ until I can get in there to take a look,” d’Artagnan ordered. Once again, the Gascon got down on the floor and then disappeared underneath the rubble; he reappeared between two large beams, standing up to give his instructions to the crew. 

“If we move this beam here,” d’Artagnan knocked on the beam in question, making certain everyone was paying attention, “then we can move the beam directly underneath it. After we have moved that one, we should be able to move this next one,” he said pointing, “and then that large one across the queen’s lap.”

“Follow the _exact_ order d’Artagnan specified, gentlemen,” Captain Tréville instructed. “D’Artagnan, stay there and direct which beams need to move, just in case.”

The crew got busy pulling out the beams in the specified order, along with large stones and mortar debris. The smaller pieces of rubble shifted and scattered across the floor, creating a constant clatter sounding similar to rain falling on a copper roof. 

“Stop for a minute!” d’Artagnan shouted from underneath the debris pile. Much of the debris had been removed, allowing for the Gascon to slide closer toward the queen who still lay trapped under the large wooden beam. “How are you doing, Your Majesty?”

“I… am doing well, considering,” the queen replied, grimacing. “My hip is really starting to hurt… please hurry!”

“Everyone, you can lift the last beam off of Her Majesty now,” d’Artagnan instructed. “Be mindful of the other debris still around us; one misstep and we’ll have an avalanche of rubble coming down on the both of us!”

Once the beam was removed, the Gascon crawled to where the queen waited patiently. “Are you alright, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, I think so,” the queen replied.

“Are you sure we can move you with that sore hip?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. 

“Yes, I can make it,” she replied with a chuckle. “It’s not _that_ bad, d’Artagnan.”

“Alright, Porthos and Aramis if you could help get the queen out… easy… watch the rubble,” d’Artagnan instructed.

Once Her Majesty was free of the wreckage, the group let out collective shouts of joy and sighs of great relief. Friendly hugs and pats on the back were shared around the room as everyone gave thanks for the queen being rescued. 

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Captain Tréville asked, looking over the queen with concern. 

“Y-yes, I think so,” she replied, though she felt wobbly and weak on her feet.

Aramis immediately went into medic-mode, examining the queen for injuries before allowing her to move away. “Your Majesty, you have multiple cuts and bruises, a small cut on your brow, and probably a severely bruised hip, but you appear to be in fairly decent shape, considering.” 

“Thank you, Aramis,” Queen Anne said, smiling at the medic. “Thank you, dear d’Artagnan, for helping me get out of there; I was so afraid I would be crushed!”

“You are more than welcome, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan replied. The Gascon bowed low at the waist and chuckled as dust and pebbles showered to the floor.

“We certainly are a sight, aren’t we?” The queen said before turning her attention to the king. 

“My wife!” the king exclaimed with joy. His Majesty wore a large smile, his face beaming with excitement at seeing his queen alive and well. “You are a sight, indeed! We must have you taken care of immediately,” he said, taking both of her hands in his. “I will call for my physician at once.” 

“Your Majesty,” the queen bowed, but suddenly grimaced at the pain it caused. Aramis rushed forward with worry, but was stopped short. “I am fine, Aramis, thank you.” 

“I will have her tended to by my own physician,” the king announced as he turned to leave. His Majesty took his wife’s hand and led her from the crowded room. Captain Tréville immediately rushed in front of the royal couple, leading them through the remains of the Petite Galerie and forward to the king’s private wing. 

The three Musketeers followed behind the king and queen, keeping watch for potential threats. The large crowd of volunteers bowed as the monarchs passed, cheering wildly for their beloved king and queen. 

Though the queen was rescued, terror hung over the palace like an angry cloud. The missing bandits were still at large, with no way to tell when they might strike again. Never has fear reigned supreme at the Palais du Louvre, but no one dared to let their guard down. 

Jean-Marc Dubois still hungered for revenge.

~§~

Stopping outside the ornate double doors, the king turned around to face his Musketeers, waiting until he had their attention. “Gentlemen,” the king began, “I want to issue a city-wide proclamation, going into effect immediately. I am ordering a manhunt for the three fugitives, Philippe, Étienne, and Jean-Marc, for the attempted murder of my wife, the queen, and also for Athos. I will post a generous reward to anyone turning in the individuals to my guards here at the palace. I am also ordering a gallows to be built here, in the Cour Carrée, for when the men are surrendered. They will be executed on the spot.”

“Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville began, but the king stayed his thoughts with an objecting hand.

“Jean-Marc is finished! He wanted revenge, so I shall give him mine,” the king said, his eyes burning with rage. My retaliation will be unrelenting and ruthless. My desire for vengeance will not be quenched until they are all dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to reprise the small role of "skilled craftsman" for d'Artagnan in the rubble scene—referencing my story, "Twister."
> 
> Acupuncture is generally believed to have originated in China. The first document which unequivocally describes an organized system of diagnosis and treatment recognized as acupuncture is The Yellow Emperor's Classic of Internal Medicine, dating from about 100 BCE.
> 
> The spread of acupuncture to other countries occurred at various times and by different routes. In the sixth century, Korea and Japan assimilated Chinese acupuncture and herbs into their medical systems. In the West, France adopted acupuncture sooner than other countries. Jesuit missionaries first brought back reports of acupuncture in the sixteenth century, and the practice was embraced by French clinicians fairly widely. French acupuncture today has been deeply influenced by Souliet du Morant, who spent many years in China and published a number of treatises about acupuncture from 1939 onwards.
> 
> In Traditional Chinese Medicine, stimulation of the Neiguan spot has been utilized to treat palpitations and symptoms related to different cardiovascular diseases. It is also considered to be an essential point in the treatment of cardiovascular pathologies, specifically with regard to disorders of rhythm as well as of the coronary blood flow. Recently also in Western literature, reports have been published supporting the clinical efficacy of acupuncture to treat arterial hypertension and to reduce chest pain.
> 
> Acupressure point K27, or Kidney 27, is a potent pressure point for addressing cardiac problems. This point is called the Shu Mansion, and it is situated under the collar bone, in the hollow at the side of the breastbone. This pair of points can be activated on both sides of the breastbone by applying firm pressure to the points using the fingertips for 1 minute. This opens the arteries and relieves chest pain, chest tightness, palpitations, and anxiety.
> 
> Acupressure point CV 14, or Conception Vessel 14, is another powerful pressure point for treatment of angina pectoris and other heart problems. This point can be found two cun (width of thumb) below the bottom of the breastbone, in the middle of the body. This point can be activated by holding pressure there with the fingertips for 1 minute. It helps to relieve chest pain, Chest tightness, angina, palpitations, and anxiety.


	6. Vengeance is Mine, Yours, Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve had enough of your games—this ends here and now, Jean-Marc,” he called to the bandit. “Come out and fight like a man… like a Musketeer!”

Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.  
Romans 12:19 NIV

 

**Paris Streets, Two Days Later:**

“You want to stop in here, Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked. He looked again at the sign and frowned, trading glances with Aramis. “Stopping in a tavern is something I would expect after a hard day’s work, but we are on orders to find Jean-Marc and his boys.”

“Exactly why we should stop in to refresh ourselves,” Porthos clapped his younger friend on the shoulder. “We need nourishment if we are to continue at this rate.”

“Porthos is right,” Aramis agreed. “We’ve been searching for them all day, all over the city. I’m parched and I’m hungry; I can’t hunt on an empty stomach.”

“But the ‘Pomme de Pin’, Porthos? Sure, why don’t we stop in to have a drink at the Pinecone!” D’Artagnan playfully nudged his brother then walked into the tavern with his brothers on his heels.

The three men found a small corner table and ordered an ale each, as well as soup and bread with cheese. They scanned the small crowd in the room, looking at each face for the wanted fugitives. Porthos quickly became interested in a not-so-friendly card game underway two tables over where, apparently, it appeared one of the players wasn’t taking his loss well.

“Oi, they’re playing lenturlu!” Porthos said, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Somebody’s a sore loser,” he began to rise at the angry commotion at the table. “I’ll bet I can take ‘im…”

“Not a chance, brother!” d’Artagnan said, grabbing Porthos by the arm to pull him back into his seat. “We don’t have time to get involved.”

“Our younger brother is right, Porthos,” Aramis sighed. “We need to eat and get back out there; we need to keep searching for the demons who shot Athos.” The medic’s eyes darkened as he thought of his friend, ill and fighting for his life back at the palace.

The group grew quiet as they retreated into their own private thoughts. The mention of Athos brought a melancholy mood which hung over the group of Musketeers like a dark storm cloud. Just yesterday, they received the news that their brother had taken a turn for the worse and was now battling a rising fever.

Aramis prayed that the fever wasn’t due to an infection in the wound, especially given its close proximity to the heart. He didn’t even want to think of the ramifications such an infection would bring to Athos’ health. After the many steps that he and the doctor had taken to make certain the patient’s wound had stayed clean—insisting the equipment and dressings were sanitary and hands were washed before touching Athos—it all mattered for nothing.

Something had gone terribly wrong. Aramis wasn’t a doctor, but he knew an infection festering so close to the heart would take precious little time in claiming the life of the patient. And as much as he fought against it, Captain Tréville had insisted that the medic join his brothers in the search for the fugitives. The captain claimed it would keep his mind occupied on something other than the possibility of Athos’… well, he couldn’t bear to even think about it.

“Athos is goin’ to be alright, Aramis,” Porthos said, softly squeezing the medic’s hand. “I know you’re worried ‘bout him—we all are—but Athos is strong… and stubborn.”

“He is stubborn, if nothing else,” d’Artagnan said with a chuckle. The Gascon cleared his throat and wiped the moisture from his eyes as the maiden brought their food and drinks to the table.

“My goodness, what a gloomy trio you handsome men are!” the fair, young maiden said with a smile. “Perhaps some food and ale in your bellies will help cheer you up, yes?”

“Yes, thank you, but we’re fine,” d’Artagnan said. “We’re in a bit of a hurry, so we’ll pay now and be on our way once we’re done.” The Gascon put a couple of coins on the young lady’s tray, paying for the group.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Aramis whispered. He picked up his spoon, but dropped it and let out a long sigh, suddenly not feeling very hungry.

“I know I didn’t but…” d’Artagnan’s voice trailed. The Gascon sighed, knowing their depressed spirit was only making the situation worse… so he decided to lighten the mood. “Aramis, my friend, you can get the next round of ales… when Athos is all better.”

“Come on, Aramis, eat up” Porthos said, having caught on to the Gascon’s clever tactic. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can get out there lookin’ for those bastards! Besides, you need to eat, brother, you said so yourself.”

Aramis sat quietly, mulling over their attempt to cheer him and couldn’t help but smile, despite himself. “Alright, let’s eat,” he said at last. “The sooner we find those bastards, the sooner we can get back to Athos.”

After gulping their drinks and shoveling down their food, the Musketeers were back out on the streets hunting for the three fugitives. They stopped by every shop, asking everybody they came across if they had seen the men in question. Growing more despondent with every shake of the head, their pace was beginning to slow.

“Rue de la Cité,” d’Artagnan read the sign aloud. “This is the main street which takes us back across Pont Notre Dame,” he stated the obvious. “Are we ready to leave the island just yet?”

“We’ve been all over this damn island, both on horseback and on foot,” Porthos growled. “My bloody feet are sore and I’m…” the big Musketeer stopped mid-sentence when he spotted the three familiar men coming out of Hôtel-Dieu. The three fugitives immediately took off running at seeing the Musketeers.

“Stop, damn you!” Porthos yelled as he started off after the men; he didn’t have to turn around to know that his brothers were right behind him.

The three Musketeers were quickly catching up to the fleeing fugitives when one of the bandits split off from the others and then disappeared around the corner of an alleyway.

“I’ll go after that one!” d’Artagnan yelled. The Gascon ran after the fugitive, easily dodging pedestrians and jumping over obstacles without losing sight of the bandit… until he rounded a corner. The Musketeer ran down the long alley but came to a screeching halt, realizing the bandit was nowhere to be found.

“What the hell? Where… where did he go?” d’Artagnan asked aloud, panting heavily. Baffled, the young Musketeer looked behind every cart and structure in the alley, but it seemed as though the fleeing man had simply disappeared. “Dammit!” the Gascon cursed. He angrily kicked a basket filled with trash, sending the rubbish flying every which way. Ignoring the irate stares, he left the trash where it fell and left to find his brothers.

After searching several city blocks for his brothers, d’Artagnan found them in the middle of a heated duel with the two fugitives, Philippe and Étienne. The bandits were no match for the Musketeers and were easily being driven backward by the more experienced swordsmen. The Gascon took advantage of being the unknown and quietly sneaked up behind the bandits, catching them by surprise. “You’re finished!” d’Artagnan spat.

“Drop your swords!” Aramis hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re done running—you cowards! Go on, give me a reason to run my blade right through your pathetic heart,” he said to Étienne.

“Easy now, mon cher,” Porthos warned in a low voice. “The king wants ‘em back alive so he can watch ‘em hang, and I’m all for obliging His Majesty.”

“Porthos is right,” d’Artagnan agreed, holding his blade to the neck of Philippe. “A sword is too good for these sewer rats,” he growled. “I think a nice, thick rope around their necks is exactly what they deserve for kidnapping and hurting Athos and the captain.”

“Where is Jean-Marc?” Aramis asked without moving his blade from Étienne’s chest.

“He got away,” d’Artagnan replied with a disgusted snarl. “He went around a corner… I have no idea where he disappeared to. I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry, li’l brother,” Porthos said, giving a reassuring squeeze to the Gascon’s shoulder. “His turn ‘ill come next,” he added, “he can count on it. Meantime, let’s these dirty rats back to the palace where His Majesty can dispose of ‘em as he sees fit.”

**Cour Carrée, Palais du Louvre, Later:**

“By order of His Majesty, King Louis XIII of France, the two prisoners, Philippe Duval and Étienne Marchand, are hereby sentenced to death by hanging for the attempted murder of Her Majesty, Queen Anne of France, and Lieutenant Athos de la Fère of the King’s Musketeers. It is so ordered,” said the assize judge of the cour d'assises.

The two prisoners were positioned on the trapdoor of the gallows platform, a black hood slipped over their heads. Philippe and Étienne trembled in fear and began to cry as each noose was fitted over the black hoods and then tightened around their necks. They both let out a scream as their hands and feet were bound, rendering them helpless.

As the judge gave the consenting nod to the executioner, a shot rang out from the crowd. In an instant, the executioner fell from the scaffold and hit the ground, blood pouring from his chest.

“Not again!” King Louis jumped to his feet in the viewing box with his jaw dropped open in shock. Regaining his composure, the king yelled over the screaming and chaos of the crowd. “I order you to pull the trapdoor! Go, and do as I command,” he ordered a nearby guard.

The guard ran up the stairs of the gallows and pulled the release bar of the trapdoor, sending the two bandits falling until the rope pulled taut. The queen turned away, cringing as she heard the distinct sound of the necks snapping, but King Louis watched with satisfaction as the two bodies hung limply, swinging with the momentum of the fall; he continued to watch until the bodies slowed and then merely swayed with the gentle breeze.

The king turned his attention back to the crowd, appalled at the chaos the bandits had caused; his anger burned, knowing the more sinister of the bandits was still at large. “What do you have for me, Captain?” the king asked as he saw Captain Tréville approaching the royal viewing box.

“Your Majesty, it was Jean-Marc, as I figured,” the captain reported. “He disappeared with the crowd off the palace grounds and was last seen heading toward the river.”

“Captain, you will send your men after Jean-Marc immediately,” the king ordered. “I want the Musketeers to spread out,” he paused, “Dubois couldn’t have gotten far. Find that man and bring him back to the palace at once! I want Jean-Marc brought directly to me—dead or alive—I do not care which. Now go!”

“You heard His Majesty,” Captain Tréville called to the company of Musketeers. “I want you men to spread out, but stay in groups of three,” he cautioned. “If you have not found Jean-Marc Dubois by nightfall, report back to the palace. You men have your orders—now go and find him!”

“Captain Tréville, you are to remain here at the palace, in such case that Jean-Marc is delivered,” the king commanded.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” the captain said, tipping his head. “However, I respectfully request the opportunity to sit with Athos until Jean-Marc is delivered,” Captain Tréville requested. “As you are aware, Athos is quite ill with fever and I am not sure of his chances…”

“Yes, yes,” the king said, waving off the captain’s request with little concern. “You may sit with Athos until which time you are required.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville said, bowing low. He turned on his heel and quickly headed for the king’s apartment, torn with internal conflict. Though he desired to sit with Athos, who was so desperately ill, he also wished he could be a part of the greatest manhunt France had ever seen. Jean-Marc had sworn his vengeance against the captain, yet the captain would have no part in Dubois’ demise.

Taking one last look beyond the palace wall, he whispered, “Don’t let him get away, boys!”

**Streets of Paris:**

“We’ve been riding for hours,” d’Artagnan complained. He swept a hand through his sweaty hair and wiped his brow with a kerchief before shoving it back into his pocket. “What if Jean-Marc has already slipped out of town? He could be gone and we’re just wasting our time!”

“No, he’s still ‘ere… I can feel it,” Porthos said, scratching his head. The big man furrowed his brow as he looked left and then looked right. “Where are you, you bloody devil?”

“Porthos, what is it?” Aramis asked, looking around with concern. The medic knew his friend well enough to trust in the big man’s instincts; usually, when he behaved in this strange manner it meant trouble was around the corner.

“He’s close by, so keep your eyes open,” Porthos warned. “I have a bad feelin’ about this…”

Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the alley as the three Musketeers rode by. Porthos dove from his horse, but his hat went flying beyond him as the force of a lead ball blew the headgear clean off his head.

“Porthos!” Aramis and d’Artagnan screamed at seeing their friend fall, fearing a gruesome head wound. Simultaneously, the two men also dove from their horses, jumping behind wagons as cover. “Porthos!” they each shouted, but received no response.

Porthos didn’t hear his friends calling as the ringing in his ears drowned out all other sounds. He lay still until regaining his composure, at which time he crawled back to rescue his hat. “Bloody hell!” The big man let out a loud growl after finding the lead ball had made a perfect hole through the folded-up brim and crown of his favorite floppy, black hat.

“Are you hurt, Porthos?” Aramis yelled to his friend. “Answer me, dammit!”

“No, I’m not hurt,” Porthos replied angrily. “But he did ruin my hat, dammit! I’ve had enough of your games—this ends here and now, Jean-Marc,” he called to the bandit. “Come out and fight like a man… like a Musketeer!”

“Like a Musketeer, eh Porthos?” Jean-Marc laughed. “So, now I’m one of you again—after you bastards kicked me to the streets!”

“Aw, stop using that sorry line, Dubois, it’s gotten old!” Aramis shouted with disgust. “You nearly lost half your leg, so blame the enemy and not us; we were not your enemy, Jean-Marc… until you pulled this stunt of yours!”

“The hell you weren’t my enemy, Aramis!” Jean-Marc spat. “I expected a sustainable severance, but was insulted with laughable and meager pay. I expected to be treated with honor—as one who nearly gave all for his king and country—but yet I was never recognized for leading that team. Worse yet, I was forgotten by my former captain… and my former brothers-in-arms!”

“You were medically discharged by order of the king, _with_ pay, decided _by_ the king; it is the fault of neither Captain Tréville nor Athos. There is no shame in being disabled in the line of duty,” Aramis yelled angrily. “But your actions have brought dishonor and shame to yourself as a former King’s Musketeer!”

“You hypocrite!” Jean-Marc retorted with a snarl. “You, of all people, Aramis, have no right talking to me about honor after what you did with the…”

“Come out and fight like a man, you bastard!” Aramis demanded, having lost his patience. The medic kicked aside a crate that went skittering across the dusty road, sending all gawkers in the area running inside buildings and locking the doors. “Stop hiding behind your wall and face us like a Musketeer with a sword in your hand!”

“Perhaps the only kind of fighting he knows how to do is with a bomb, blowing up innocent people up who are unable to defend themselves!” D’Artagnan shouted with deliberate insult. The Gascon emerged from his hiding place behind the wagon to boldly stand beside Aramis.

Soon, Porthos was also standing with his brothers, pistol drawn. The three men walked toward Jean-Marc just as the cowardly man rolled from his hiding place and took a shot at Aramis, hitting him in the breast. A strange _**crack!**_ sounded as the ball hit, sending the medic falling backward into the dirt.

D’Artagnan and Porthos dove behind cover, shooting their pistols as they fell. They each then scrambled to their fallen brother’s side, fearing what they would discover.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan cried out. “Aramis, please… oh, God, no!”

“Aramis, please, open your eyes for me, brother!” Porthos commanded as he gently slapped the cheeks of the unmoving medic. His large fingers frantically unbuttoned the loops of the leather doublet until stopped by the renowned blue sash and belt. He pulled aside the jacket, expecting to see a chest covered in blood, but found only small shards of glass.

“What is that!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “It looks like… like broken glass, but… how…?”

“I put… put a small… looking glass in my pocket,” Aramis panted, trying to catch his breath. “The queen… queen gave me her p-pocket mirror as a gift; it has a backing of gold leaf…”

“Which is why there’s no blood!” d’Artagnan shouted with joy. “This is one time that I’m very grateful for your fondness of mirrors, mon cher,” he chuckled. “Oh, thank God!”

“Amen to ‘at, li’l brother,” Porthos huffed in a relieved tone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, but…”

“Wait, where is Jean-Marc?” d’Artagnan interrupted with trepidation. At the alarm, the group scrambled for cover behind the nearby crates. “I see him!” the Gascon bellowed from his vantage point. “It looks like he may be hit.”

“Don’t trust ‘im,” Porthos warned, carefully peeking around the crate to verify. “He could be faking it!”

“He hasn’t moved since the shooting,” d’Artagnan offered, raising his eyebrows to his brothers. “Shouldn’t we go check and see?”

“When we go over there, we all go together,” Porthos sternly asserted. “Are you able to stand up, Aramis?”

“Yes, I’m just a little sore, but I wasn’t shot, remember?” Aramis said, forcing a smile. “Help me up…” The medic bent his elbows and stuck them out so his brothers could lift him to his feet. He swayed as a touch of dizziness washed over him, but soon straightened when he spotted Jean-Marc lying on the ground. “Let’s approach very carefully,” he cautioned. “D’Artagnan, you swing left and, Porthos, you swing right; we’re going to come at him from all angles. We are not going to let him get away again!”

The three men made their way toward the fugitive, but took it slow as they constantly watched his body for signs of movement. Seeing no movement, the men surrounded Jean-Marc with swords drawn. Porthos was about to turn the man over when suddenly Dubois struck out with his dagger, slicing across the heavy boot of the large Musketeer.

“Bloody hell!” Porthos cursed with a menacing shout. “First my hat and now my boot, damn you!” he growled. “You are finished, Jean-Marc!”

Jean-Marc roared with laughter as he swung the blade once again toward the Gascon’s legs, but missed as d’Artagnan easily jumped out of the way.

Together, the three Musketeers swung their swords in one swift motion, pinning Jean-Marc with the tips of their sharp blades at the bandit’s throat and chest. “You are finished!” they chorused.

“Go ahead, pierce me through with your blades,” Jean-Marc taunted the men. “You bastards are too honorable to hurt me in cold blood, remember? You’re nothing but dogs,” he laughed. “You’re all bloody cowards who aren’t fit…”

Suddenly, the three men shoved their blades right through Jean-Marc, shocking him to silence in mid-sentence. The man’s eyes bulged with sudden pain and pure surprise. “Nooo,” he gasped. His hands reached up to free the swords skewering him through, but they simply slid down the blade and fell limply to the ground. At last, Jean-Marc moved no more.

“Watch who you call a coward,” Porthos growled. “I don’t respond too kindly to ‘at insult!”

“The only coward here was you, Jean-Marc,” Aramis hissed through clenched teeth.

“Well, His Majesty did say that we could bring Jean-Marc back to the palace… alive or dead, did he not?” d’Artagnan asked. He then tilted his head sideways, watching with curiosity as his blade seemed to be vibrating back and forth on its own. “He is dead, isn’t he, Aramis?”

Aramis shoved his blade in deeper, until the tip pierced the dusty road; the medic then twisted the blade for good measure. “There, he’s dead,” he deadpanned. “Worst case, he’ll bleed out on the way to the palace.”

“Let’s load up this filth and get out of ‘ere,” Porthos said. The big man pulled his sword free of the body and then wiped the blood on the man’s pantleg, before sheathing it at his waist. “That was for the cap’n,” he snarled.

D’Artagnan placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and stared at Jean-Marc with contempt. “And that was for Athos,” the Gascon said as he pulled his blade free. He cleaned the blood from his blade on the man’s shirt before replacing his sword in its sheath.

“And that was for Her Majesty, the queen!” Aramis pulled his blade free and wiped it clean before sheathing it. “Now, my brothers, it is finally over. Let’s load him up and get back to Athos.”

**Meantime at King’s Apartments, Palais du Louvre:**

“There has been no change in his condition, Captain,” the doctor said. “Athos is still feverish and is not responding to treatment; he has not regained consciousness since you and your men left him.”

“Milady was with him earlier, where did she go?” Captain Tréville asked, looking around the room.

“Um, well, she had a disagreement with the nurses about something and they banned her from the room,” the doctor said.

“What!” Tréville exclaimed. “Has no one been monitoring Athos this entire afternoon? Where are the nurses?”

“We have been busy tending to Her Majesty…”

“I don’t believe this,” Captain Tréville muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and creased his brow, groaning as he felt a headache coming on. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like some time alone with Athos.”

“Of course, take all the time you need,” the doctor said, turning on his heel to leave. Before shutting the door, the physician watched as the captain sat beside the bed and picked up the patient’s hand. He gently brushed away the hair from Athos’ brow and then leaned in close, whispering something the physician couldn’t hear. The man quietly shut the door, leaving the men alone.

“Athos, where do I begin?” Tréville whispered, rubbing the hand clutched in his own. “What can I say? How can I convince you to fight this illness and come back to us? I know you were very seriously hurt, but you cannot let Jean-Marc win—not like this. Please, Athos, you have to fight and get better; don’t give that devil the satisfaction.”

“Do you remember what I said back at the lodge?” Tréville sighed. “I strongly believe that some of Jean-Marc’s thirst for vengeance stems, not just from losing his commission as a Musketeer, but from his jealousy of you. As a Musketeer, Dubois was… average at best, though he thought of himself as much better than that.”

“I saw the way he watched you, studied you, and even mimicked your moves, but yet he never could admit to being a lesser swordsman than you. No, he was too proud for that. When you received the promotion to lieutenant, something in Jean-Marc changed; I saw a darkness in his eyes when he looked at you—it was a look of pure hatred.”

“Jean-Marc was not fit for command, not from the beginning,” Tréville stated firmly. “I saw from the start that he was only interested in himself—in gaining recognition—and the prestige the rank would bring him. I knew he only volunteered for that dangerous mission because he expected it to be an easy path to glory; he expected no resistance from the enemy. He greatly underestimated the enemy and, in turn, they took advantage of his weakness. His arrogance, his self-inflated aplomb, got his team killed and himself badly wounded, yet he blames me!”

The captain sat back in his chair, still clinging to the hand in his own. “You were the opposite of Jean-Marc, in every manner possible. I saw greatness in you, yet you were blind to it yourself. I saw the makings of a great leader, as one who could think on his feet in stressful, even dangerous, situations. I saw that you were more willing to risk yourself, rather than risk the lives of your brothers, but as an attribute, that can be both good and bad. As a captain, one day you will understand what I mean by that.”

“Aramis and Porthos also saw those same qualities in you,” he said, smiling at the memory. “The men tried welcoming you into their circle of friendship, but you resisted and tried pushing them away; yet they were determined not to let your stubbornness discourage them. They kept after you, but you insisted that you wanted to be left alone. However, the truth was that you were lonely and you needed their friendship; you needed the brotherhood. Porthos and Aramis, and then later, d’Artagnan, filled a void inside of you which, in turn, allowed you to blossom into the great man I already knew was inside you.”

“And yet, here you are, fighting for your life,” Captain Tréville whispered, swallowing hard. “Jean-Marc knew that killing me would have been too easy; it would have brought him little satisfaction. But he knew that if he hurt you, or even killed you, it would make me suffer… and he would have his vengeance at last.” He wiped at the moisture stinging his eyes.

“When Jean-Marc shot you and I saw you go limp with that rope strangling the life out of you, I have never felt so afraid,” Tréville admitted. “I have never felt so helpless; I thought I was watching you die,” he paused to clear his throat. The captain sat quietly collecting his emotions, while pondering old memories.

“If I could trade places with you, I would do so at this very moment. I’ve lived my life. I’ve had my career, but you have your whole life—your career—ahead of you… if you would just fight for it, dammit!” Captain Tréville clenched his jaws, his muscles visibly rolling underneath his skin. The captain struggled as he fought an internal battle of emotions versus commanding his authority.

“I cannot simply order you to get well again,” Tréville blurted, but after a moment, he had second thoughts. _Maybe that’s not a bad idea …_

“You’re a soldier, Athos, fight, dammit! I want you—no, I order you to fight as a soldier; I challenge you to fight as a King’s Musketeer! Fight against the pull of death threatening to take you away from me and your three brothers who love you more than life itself!”

“Perhaps I am being selfish, but I could not bear the guilt nor the regret that I would carry with me for the rest of my days, should you die.” Tréville let go of the limp hand and quickly rose to his feet.

“Prove Jean-Marc wrong, Athos! Prove the doctor wrong and show your true aptitude, son. Show everyone what you are made of; show them your strength and your grit; show them your determination and your will to live!”

Captain Tréville paced around the room with his hands held behind his back, stopping only to scrub a distraught hand down his face. He blew out a weary breath and let his head hang with hopelessness, feeling tired—tired of worrying, tired of running, tired of being a victim.

Tréville stood tall, squared his shoulders and pulled himself together, resolving to fight Jean-Marc and his destruction at all cost.

The captain sat beside the bed and took Athos’ hand and squeezed it gently. “Athos, I don’t know if you can hear me, but the king ordered a manhunt for Jean-Marc and his goons—we got two of them. Currently, Dubois is still at large, but I’ve got the men out there looking for him and we won’t give up until we have him in custody or he’s dead. I will make him pay for what he’s done to you. I will not be a victim of his terrorism… not another damn day!”

“I can’t bear to lose you, but especially not to that monster, Jean-Marc,” Tréville confessed in a soft whisper. “Promise me that you will fight! I want you to fight against everything that Jean-Marc wanted to take away from you, from us. I want you to live—for yourself, for your brothers… and for me. Promise me, Athos!”

Captain Tréville sat back in his seat, shaking his head at the pale, unmoving figure in front of him. “He’s not taking you from us… I won’t let him,” he said with determination.

The captain stood and lightly brushed his hand over Athos’ hair and then let his hand slip to rest on the fevered brow. He frowned at the heat radiating underneath his hand and felt as though all resolve had suddenly escaped him.

“Please, fight this, Athos,” he said, leaning over to plant a light kiss on his lieutenant’s forehead, before falling hopelessly back into his chair.

“God, help Athos,” Captain Tréville pleaded. “God, help him fight.” The captain took Athos’ hand in both of his own, bowed his head and began to pray. Hard as he tried to fight it, he couldn’t stop the trembling of his shoulders as the release of emotions brought an unstoppable flow of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Île de la Cité is one of two natural islands (the Île Saint-Louis is the other) in the Seine River within the city of Paris. The island is where the famous Notre-Dame Cathedral is located, and also it’s where Hôtel-Dieu, France’s first hospital is located.
> 
> A famous tavern on Île de la Cité during the 17th century was the Pomme de Pin (Pinecone). It survived until the mid-1800s when Paris Prefect Haussmann razed it to make more room for the Hôtel Dieu hospital adjacent to Notre Dame Cathedral.
> 
> A French cour d'assises or Assize Court is a criminal trial court; in the cour d'assises they could sentence convicted criminals to the death penalty for certain crimes.
> 
> In England the Assize Court was established in 1166 by King Henry II to settle a land dispute. The original judges were knights appointed by King Henry. By 1293, there were four circuits (districts) and by 1328, these circuits were reorganized into six circuits. The districts grew to seven and the "justices of assize" would also travel across the seven circuits of England and Wales.


	7. This Can't Be Goodbye...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t let this be goodbye, Athos,” d’Artagnan whispered softly. The Gascon squeezed his brother’s hand as he choked back a sob. “This can’t be the end… this can’t be goodbye!”

**King’s Apartments, Palais du Louvre:**

The three Musketeers stood quietly in the doorway, watching the scene in the bedroom while fearing the worst. They stood frozen, afraid their brother had died while they were out searching for Athos’ shooter… and the captain was left to grieve alone. 

The trio couldn’t speak for the lump in their throats. Fear clutched at their chest, making their hearts skip a beat while squeezing the very breath from their lungs. They dared a glance amongst themselves, but they couldn’t see through the tears. 

Time stood still. 

How long they stood—quietly watching their captain tearfully pray—they did not know. 

D’Artagnan shifted on his feet, causing his scabbard to clank against the door, instantly ending the heart-wrenching scene. “I’m… I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir,” he apologized as the captain stopped praying and turned around at the noise. The Gascon hung his head, silently berating himself for disturbing the captain in such an emotional and private moment.

“Captain?” Aramis rasped, his throat constricted. “Is Athos… is Athos… Oh God, please don’t let it be true…”

“No, I was just praying,” Captain Tréville replied, letting go of Athos’ hand. He stood to his feet, while discreetly wiping the tears from his eyes and cheeks. “Athos is still alive,” he rasped.

The collective breaths of relief were followed by strangled sobs of joy. The three brave Musketeers fell against each other, hugging and clinging tightly to one another lest they fall to their knees on the floor. “Thank God,” the men whispered.

“Captain, what’s wrong then?” d’Artagnan asked anxiously, finally finding his voice. He let go of his brothers, but didn’t move from the doorway. “Has he regained consciousness at all?”

“No, there’s been no change,” Captain Tréville replied, shaking his head. “I must be honest, the doctor has expressed serious concerns regarding Athos’ condition,” he whispered softly. “His wound doesn’t appear infected, yet inexplicably, his fever is rising. I don’t know if there is anything more we can do for him.”

“No!” Aramis cried out, clenching his fists as he stepped toward the captain. “I don’t believe that… there is _always_ something that we can do! I am _not_ going to give up hope simply because the doctor has. Doctor Michel has no personal investment in Athos—he’s just another patient. Athos is not the king—he’s just a Musketeer!”

“Aramis, that’s enough!” Tréville ordered. “His Majesty has been very gracious in allowing Athos to stay here in his apartments, and the king has given full access to his medical staff, including his best physician.”

“Yet he offers no hope,” Aramis argued. “If Athos dies, it means little to Doctor Michel, but it means a whole hell of a lot to us!”

“Do you believe that Athos’ death would mean nothing to me?” King Louis interrupted, startling the group. Everyone turned to face the king and then gave their respectful, albeit habitual, bow to His Majesty. The king waved off the bows to focus his hardened stare at Aramis, since it was he who had voiced his resentment at the current situation.

The unexpected appearance of the king was an unpleasant surprise, considering their debate over his personal physician. The room was quiet as the men waited for Aramis to reply, but he held his tongue. 

“I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty, but we are all very upset about Athos’ condition,” Captain Tréville explained, ending the uncomfortable silent standoff. “I am certain Aramis meant no disrespect, Sire.” 

“So I ask all of you again, do you think that Athos’ death would mean nothing to me?” the king repeated. “Answer me!”

“No, we do not think that, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan interjected, swallowing hard. “Ever since the captain and Athos were kidnapped and you refused to return to the palace, insisting on staying with us, well, it made quite an impression. I think it’s safe to speak for everyone, Your Majesty, but I believe that you _do_ care.” 

“Yes, indeed I do care, gentlemen,” the king said, his voice softening. “I would admit, when I first met Athos, I was skeptical of a nobleman who would relinquish his title and then apply to join my regiment; I wondered what devious scheme he was planning. However, the longer he served in my regiment, under the command of Captain Tréville, I realized that he had no scheme,” he said, smiling. “Athos’ intention to serve his country and his king—as a soldier and a Musketeer—was quite honorable.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aramis chimed in at last, concurring with the king. “Athos’ intentions have always been honorable, especially in his service as a Musketeer, Sire.”

“If Athos should die, I would not only be losing one of the best officers in my regiment,” King Louis paused, “I would also be losing someone that I cared about. But, aside from that, I came here to tell the captain the very satisfying news about Jean-Marc.”

“What satisfying news, Your Majesty?” Captain Tréville asked, perking up with anticipation. The captain’s eyes darted to his three men who hadn’t yet informed him of the news regarding Jean-Marc. “Forgive me, Sire, but I am rather out of touch; I have been sitting with Athos all afternoon and have not been informed of any news.”

“Cap’n, we were goin’ to tell you when we came up ‘ere,” Porthos explained with hesitation. “But when we saw you prayin’ and… well, we thought Athos was… we just forgot to mention it, Cap’n.”

“Indeed, Captain, your men brought me Jean-Marc’s dead body when they arrived back at the palace just moments ago,” King Louis announced with a large smile. “I am quite satisfied and, now that the three fugitives are dead, I am officially closing this matter. In regard to Athos, I will have my physician provide any treatments necessary to save his life; I want my lieutenant to receive the best medical care that can be provided.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville said, with a grateful nod. “That is very gracious of you, Sire.”

“Yes, well, you are quite welcome,” the king said with a wave of his hand. “However, now that Jean-Marc is dead, we must return to business as usual. Captain, I am afraid that you must return to your duties at the garrison,” he ordered. “You must see to your other men, of course.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Tréville said, dipping his head. “I will return at once.”

“Your Majesty,” Aramis blurted as the king began to leave. “I respectfully request that we three be allowed to remain with Athos, at least until we know that he is no longer in danger. If he knows his brothers are with him, he’ll fight; but if he is alone, I fear he would be more prone to slip away. Please, Your Majesty,” the medic begged. 

“I should decline your request, Aramis,” the king said stubbornly. “However, I know you are correct and I do agree. If it would help Athos, then I insist you three do everything in your power to encourage him to fight… and to survive.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the men replied together, sighing with relief.

“If there is anything at all that you need, be sure to tell Doctor Michel,” the king ordered. “I will make sure that he complies with all _reasonable_ requests.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” they said, bowing as the king left the room with the captain following.

“Captain…” d’Artagnan began to protest, but was stopped short.

“No, the king is right,” Tréville said. “I must get back to the men; this situation with Jean-Marc has kept me away too long. However, I will feel much better knowing that Athos has you three with him,” he said, nodding. “You boys take good care of him… and see to it that he survives.”

The men continued to stand near the doorway, hesitant to approach their brother’s bedside. They had all seen Athos, as well as each other, in all manners of illness and injuries, but somehow this felt different. This time, it felt final… it felt like they were saying goodbye.

“We were out all day searching for Jean-Marc,” Aramis grumbled. “Dammit, I should have been _here_ with Athos, sitting at his bedside, not stalking a fugitive all over Paris!”

"I’m sure Doctor Michel and Captain Tréville took good care of Athos while we were gone, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, attempting to soothe the medic.

“I’m afraid Athos’ condition has only worsened,” Aramis stated anxiously. “Had the captain not been here…” he stopped short, unable to finish. “What if there is nothing that we can do?” 

“Now, what kind of talk is ‘at, Aramis?” Porthos asked gruffly. “Didn’t we just promise His Majesty that we would help Athos fight? Now you’re talkin’ like he doesn’t have a chance!” 

“No, it’s just… I’m worried about the infection,” Aramis said, his voice laced with fear. “What if it spreads to his bloodstream? Mon Dieu, I can’t bear to think of it…” his voice trailed. 

“Why don’t we pull up a chair and go sit with Athos?” Porthos suggested, squeezing Aramis gently on the shoulder. “We’re not doing him any good standin’ over ‘ere.” 

The Musketeers walked into the room and pulled up some extra chairs and, for the first time since entering the room, they got an up-close look at their brother. They froze in shock, gasping at the unexpected sight. 

Athos seemed a shell of his former self; his dreadful appearance took their breath away. The Musketeer lieutenant looked ghastly with dark circles under his eyes, nearly matching the dark hair plastered against his pale skin.

As the men drew closer, they immediately noticed the unhealthy grey pallor of Athos’ skin, accentuated by a blue tinge outlining his lips. If they didn’t know better, they might have thought they were viewing a corpse. The three watched the lieutenant’s chest rise and fall, finding strange relief in the labored breaths. There was little understanding why this patient still lived yet, somehow, he did.

Aramis gently ran his fingers over the bandages wrapped around Athos’ chest until he stopped at the little tent covering his wound. The tin drainage tube was still in place, surrounded by thick wads of cotton to keep it sanitary and secure. The medic stared closely at the spot where Jean-Marc had fired his pistol and was surprised to find no sign of infection—no redness or angry lines streaking across the skin. 

If it wasn’t an infection, what could have brought his brother to such a bleak state as this? Aramis placed his palm down on the chest and gasped at the heat underneath his hand. He moved his fingers across the bandages to settle over the sternum, remembering the desperate chest compressions and pressure applications he had performed over that very spot. 

“Aramis, what’s wrong?” d’Artagnan asked warily. “What are you not telling us?”

Aramis looked up, hesitating as he saw his two brothers watching him, eyes wide with fear. “This is beyond my skill level,” the medic whispered finally. “At this point, I am not sure what we should do. If it’s not an infection, what is causing his fever to spike?”

Doctor Michel stood by the door, having heard the question voiced by the medic, but it was more of what remained unspoken that impressed upon his heart. Fear, despair, and angst was etched on the faces of the men sitting around the patient. “In regards to your question about what is causing his fever,” the doctor continued, “I do not know for certain. I have tried several herbal remedies, but the fever remains.” 

“Is the wound infected?” Aramis asked, gazing down at the wound while shaking his head.

“Not externally, which is why his condition is so perplexing,” the doctor said, rubbing his chin. “I do not see any visible signs of infection in, or around the wound.”

“Then what is causing his fever?” d’Artagnan asked incredulously. “A body simply does not burn with fever for no reason, there _has_ to be a cause. Doctor, we don’t have time for guessing; we have to figure out what’s wrong with Athos!”

“Easy lad,” Porthos soothed. “I’m sure the good doctor is doin’ everything he can to help Athos.” The Musketeer knew nothing about medicine, but he always admired Aramis’ skill at putting broken bodies back together again with little more than a basic medical kit. However, he realized that even the most skilled medics and physicians don’t have all the answers to perplexing problems such as this.

“Doctor Michel, is there anything that we can do?” Aramis asked, standing to face the physician. “Is there anything we haven’t tried, anything we haven’t thought of?”

“Yes, there is something that I have in mind,” the doctor replied. “You asked earlier what was causing the fever and I have a theory. Since I have not seen any external signs of infection, it is possible that the infection is internal and,” he paused, “bacteria has entered the bloodstream. His body may be fighting off the toxins from this infection.” 

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis uttered, his face going completely pale. The medic dropped into his chair as though all energy had been drained from his body; he leaned forward to bury his face in his hands.

“Aramis!” Porthos and d’Artagnan exclaimed, their voices blending. 

“Doctor, what does that mean?” d’Artagnan asked, glancing between the doctor and the medic.

“You mentioned toxins,” Porthos stated anxiously. “What kind of toxins, and what does ‘at mean for Athos?”

“There are a few possibilities, such as a small amount of lead from the ball got into his bloodstream, or bacteria from the wound has entered his blood, but I am just speculating,” the doctor answered. “Whatever the source of the toxins, I do believe it is the reason for his fever and the grey color to his skin.”

“What can we do to treat these toxins?” Aramis asked, lifting his head. The medic sat up then brushed a shaking hand through his hair. “If the infection is already in his bloodstream…”

“Aramis, I just read of an incredible procedure recently performed on a patient with symptoms very similar,” the doctor reported with enthusiasm. “It is remarkably simple, but reportedly very effective in removing toxins from the bloodstream. If I hadn’t just read about it, I never would have thought to try it.”

“What is it doctor?” the group asked.

“Activated charcoal, which is simply the charred remains of wood,” the doctor replied enthusiastically. 

“But, how in the world do we treat Athos with ashes?” Aramis asked, bewildered.

“Since the patient is unconscious, the charcoal would be administered with water through a tube inserted into his nose and then threaded down the esophagus to the stomach,” Doctor Michel said. 

“A tube through his nose, Doctor?” d’Artagnan asked with alarm. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Is that really necessary?”

“Yes, it is young man,” the doctor replied. “Inserting a tube is a necessary, but simple solution to administering fluids.”

“How does this activated charcoal work?” Aramis asked.

“Activated charcoal contains gaseous pores, which act like a sponge,” Doctor Michel explained. “The charcoal binds to the toxins in the stomach, and ultimately throughout the body, soaking up these toxins and preventing them from spreading. Since the infection hasn’t yet reached a critical point, it is not too late to give this procedure a try.”

“Doctor, I am willing to try anything if it means saving his life,” Aramis said, exchanging grim looks with his brothers. The medic knew if they didn’t try something bold and daring, Athos wouldn’t survive. “I’ve never heard of such a procedure, but now is a good time to learn something new. Let’s get started,” he nodded. 

**Nasogastric Surgery:**

For the first time since gazing upon the ghastly figure of their brother, the Musketeers had hope in saving Athos’ life. After the supplies had been gathered, the doctor and Aramis were ready to begin the procedure as Porthos and d’Artagnan watched.

“Aramis, I’ll need you to tip Athos’ head back so I can thread this tube down easier,” the doctor instructed. 

“Oi, it’s a good thing Athos isn’t awake for this,” Porthos muttered under his breath.

“Hmph, you’re right about that,” d’Artagnan huffed. “I couldn’t picture Athos being overly cooperative in such a situation,” he shook his head.

“I’m threading the tube into his nostril now,” the doctor narrated as he worked. The physician’s brow creased with heavy lines of concentration as he carefully pushed the tube through a nostril and then down into the throat. The procedure was going well until the tube seemed to catch and was unable to move further, much to the dismay of the team.

“Well, we’re going to have to begin again,” the doctor said. He shook his head with disappointment as he pulled the tube back out again. “Keep his head back and hold him steady,” he said. The doctor pushed the tubing through the nostril once more and then, slowly but carefully, he pushed the tube smoothly down the length of the esophagus and into the stomach. “There, it’s in!”

“Ah, thank God,” the medic exclaimed as he crossed himself with relief. “I’ve seen a good many medical procedures, but this is a first. I’m very impressed, Doctor!” Aramis complimented the doctor as he leaned over to admire the tubing up close. “It _is_ a good thing Athos can’t feel this,” he huffed in agreement. He glanced over his shoulder, smiling as his brothers approached to examine the strange leather tube for themselves.

“Now, how do you get the charcoal through this tube?” d’Artagnan asked. He wrinkled his nose as he glanced at the dish containing the soft black powder, and then back at the tube protruding from Athos’ nose.

“We are going to mix it with a small amount of water and then funnel it into the tubing,” the doctor replied. “I’m going to need help keeping his upper body elevated—to aid the flow of the water.” 

“Yes, we can help with ‘at,” Porthos nodded. The large Musketeer positioned himself on one side as d’Artagnan stood ready on the other, each waiting for the doctor to have the charcoal solution mixed and ready to be administered. 

Aramis tipped Athos’ head back as the doctor slowly poured the charcoal mixture into the funnel. “Alright, pull him forward now, gently,” the medic said, nodding to his brothers.

“Easy now,” Porthos whispered as he and d’Artagnan sat Athos up, just enough to allow gravity to do its work. 

“Alright, that should do it,” the doctor said to the team. “Lay him back down, careful not to jostle the tube in his chest. I’m going to keep his head positioned as such because I’m leaving the nasal tube in place,” the doctor tipped Athos’ head back on the pillow. “I will be administering small dosages quite frequently and do not wish to repeat that threading process each time, so the tube stays in.”

“How many dosages will it take?” Aramis asked. “Is it safe enough for multiple applications?”

“Oh yes, it’s safe,” the doctor assured. “Remember, my young assistant, this is just the ash of burned wood; it’s perfectly safe. I hope I won’t have to administer too many dosages before we see it take effect.”

“Please, let this work,” d’Artagnan pleaded. “Just look at Athos, he has tubes sticking out of him everywhere! I’ve never seen anything like this,” the Gascon expressed sadly as he stared at his mentor. “So, what do we do now?”

“Now, we wait.”

**Middle of the Night:**

The Musketeers sat around the soft glow of the candlelight, watching the doctor finish his treatment of Athos’ chest; the wound had been flushed, drained, dried with cotton, and then redressed. The tin tubing was working well at keeping the wound clear of infection, and it appeared that Doctor Michel may soon be able to close the wound completely.

The men had finally settled in their seats after assisting Aramis and the doctor with another administration of the charcoal mixture. It was too early to tell if the charcoal was doing its job, and the lighting too poor to determine if the paleness was decreasing. Strange shadows danced on the walls from the candles flickering with the breeze coming through the open window, creating an eeriness to the room. 

“Curse this waiting,” Porthos growled. “I don’t see any change in ‘im, Aramis. How long will these treatments take?”

“Porthos, we have a long wait ahead of us,” Aramis said with a sigh. “You look exhausted, mon cher, why don’t we take watch in shifts,” he suggested. “How about the two of you get some rest and I’ll take first watch. We’re in for a long day tomorrow, so we may as well try to get some sleep… we’re going to need it.”

**Next Morning:**

“Did you get any rest?” Porthos asked d’Artagnan, who sat quietly whispering to Athos as the morning sun streamed through the window. “How long has Aramis been asleep?”

“Oh, he’s been out for several hours now,” d’Artagnan replied. “I was scheduled to wake him about an hour ago, but I’m not tired anymore and I didn’t have the heart to wake him.”

“Naw, just let him sleep as long as ‘e needs to,” Porthos said. He watched his friend sleep, wishing the worry and anxiety ahead wasn’t a burden the medic had to bear. “He would run himself ragged if we let ‘im. I’ve seen the devotion he has to tendin’ to us when we’re hurt and if we don’t remind ‘im to sleep or eat, he wouldn’t do it.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a sleepy voice.

“That’s not true,” Aramis chimed in. “It’s just sometimes I can’t afford to step away—not even for a minute. It depends on what’s wrong…” his voice trailed.

“Aramis, do you think Athos is going to be alright?” d’Artagnan asked softly. “Is this charcoal solution _really_ going to clear the infection from his bloodstream?” The Gascon hesitated, but continued his train of thought. “Is this going to develop… into another case of sepsis?”

Just then the doctor walked in with his nurses following closely behind. “I brought you boys some breakfast—you men need to keep up your nourishment,” Doctor Michel said. “I heard your question, young man, and I will be completely upfront with you,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I pray that this infection will not develop into sepsis, as we are all fully aware of what that means, but we do have to allow the charcoal time to scrub his system out. I will caution you, gentlemen, that Athos may get worse before he gets better. His body is in for a struggle, so you should be prepared—be prepared for the fight ahead and be prepared to help Athos through it.” 

“Dear God, that doesn’t sound very encouraging!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. He sat back in his chair and then leaned forward to rest his chin in his hands.

“I’m sorry if I sound discouraging, but I want you to be prepared for what’s ahead; I want you to know of the fight we may be facing so you aren’t taken by surprise,” the doctor stated with candor. “Gentlemen, please, take heart and believe there is light at the end of this dark tunnel.”

“If hope is all we have,” Aramis paused, “I’ll take whatever we can get.”

**Later:**

“Keep swabbing him down, gentlemen,” the doctor instructed. “Keep him cool. He’s fighting the infection, but we mustn’t allow his body to overheat… that could be very dangerous indeed!”

“Athos is burning up with fever and we can’t keep the water cool enough for him!” d’Artagnan complained brusquely. “His body is so hot that he’s warming the cloth, which warms the water… it’s counterproductive!” The Gascon threw the cloth into the bowl, causing a wave of water to splash out.

“Now you just made a mess, li’l brother,” Porthos quipped, attempting to ease the tension. The men had been working over Athos for hours, fretting and worrying, without complaint, but the stress was beginning to take its toll. 

“Why don’t you take a break,” Aramis suggested softly. “Go outside and get some fresh air…”

“No, we’re all in this together,” d’Artagnan retorted sharply. Taking a deep breath, the Gascon closed his eyes as he took a moment to calm himself. He finally opened his eyes and forced a tired smile. “All for one, remember?”

“He’s goin’ to be alright, d’Artagnan,” Porthos assured softly. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan said, sighing deeply. The Gascon retrieved his cloth, wrung out the tepid water and began swabbing Athos once more. “We’re not going to give him any other choice,” he said with determination.

~§~

“This will probably be the last charcoal application we give Athos,” the doctor said with a tinge of resignation. “We cannot keep administering the water without giving his body time to process that water… but that’s a whole other matter.”

“Why does it smell like peppermint?” Aramis asked, sniffing the charcoal mixture with curiosity.

“Oh, I added a little peppermint and chamomile into the charcoal,” the doctor admitted sheepishly. “Both herbs work wonders at reducing fevers… I figured it couldn’t hurt,” he added quietly.

“Bloody hell, how much more of this can Athos take?” Porthos asked angrily. The big man leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, grumbling inaudibly under his breath. 

“Hmph,” d’Artagnan huffed in reply. “Now you’re sounding like I was earlier, Porthos. We can’t give up on him, brother.”

“I’m not givin’ up on ‘im… not ever,” Porthos declared. “Let’s give this one more try,” he said, standing to his feet. The big man helped d’Artagnan lift Athos forward as the doctor poured the mixture into the funneled tube. 

After the group finished with the final charcoal solution, the doctor slowly pulled out the leather nasal tube and set it aside. “Now it’s up to him and the Almighty… there is nothing more I can do.”

~§~

As the hours passed, the Musketeers began to grow more despondent, each spiraling downward with morose, if not morbid, thoughts. Deep down inside, they feared the worst.

_How do we stay positive in such a grim situation as this? When we see the life of a beloved brother slowly ebb away in front of our very eyes, how do we say goodbye? How do we cope?_

_How do we keep pretending all will be well, when inside our hearts are breaking?_

Soon the sun gave way to shadows and darkness, as though the elements were keeping in sync with the heavy air of gloom inside the sickroom. The nursing staff brought in several candles, breaking the doleful veil with a warm, glowing light; the ladies set aside extra candles, knowing the men would be up for the duration of the night.

There would be no sleeping tonight. Each Musketeer intended that—should Athos not survive the night—they would stay with him, holding his hand until his last breath.

“Don’t let this be goodbye, Athos,” d’Artagnan whispered softly. The Gascon squeezed his brother’s hand as he choked back a sob. “I’m not ready to say goodbye; I have so much left to learn from you… how can I let you go?”

“I’m not lettin’ ‘im go, dammit!” Porthos said, trying to remain positive but losing the battle. “Athos, you have to fight for us,” he pleaded. “Where’s ‘at stubborn, bull-headed spirit of yours, brother?”

“I remember that stubborn, strong-willed man who came into the regiment,” Aramis said sadly, his mind wandering back in time at the memory. “I remember a man who wanted only to be left alone, who buried his past and his sorrows by drowning himself in wine. He closed himself off from friendship, but we wouldn’t allow him to hide behind that wall,” he smiled. “No, we persistently kept chipping away until he finally relented and let us in. And now, we are supposed to just let him go?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do without him,” d’Artagnan cried, wiping the tears from his face. “This can’t be the end… this can’t be goodbye!”

“I was proud to be counted among his small circle of friends,” Porthos admitted with whisper. “I was proud to call him brother,” his words were cut off with a choking cry.

“He was the brother I never had,” d’Artagnan added, giving in to his tears.

“This can’t be how it ends,” Aramis’ emotional voice rasped. “As long as he still draws breath, there is hope. God still works miracles,” he said. The medic took both of Athos’ hands, folded them together and then placed them on his chest. He pulled out his rosary, kissed it and then dropped it into Athos’ hands, taking the effort to wrap the beads in between the still fingers. “This will give you strength, Athos,” he said, sitting back down to quietly whisper the Lord’s Prayer.

Once again silence fell on the group. No one dared to speak as they fixed their gaze on the rising and falling of Athos’ chest… wondering if the next breath would be his last. 

**Later:**

The fog was so thick he couldn’t see. He tried to remember where he was, but there was no memory. Dazed and confused, he sensed something in his hands, tangling and binding his fingers together. 

“What…?” Athos said weakly as he peeled his eyes open. His fingers tried to untangle themselves from the strands but he didn’t have the strength. “Wha.. iss… thsss?” The Musketeer lifted his shaking hands to find a rosary intertwined through his fingers, and his breath caught. If he was holding a rosary, he knew what it meant… and who had placed the beads there.

“Ar… ‘mis,” he croaked, his voice raspy and dry. “Where…?” Athos’ eyes searched then stopped when he spied his three brothers slumped in their chairs. They each had fallen into an exhausted sleep, the weariness and despair evident on their worn faces—the emotional and mental toll had finally worn them down. 

Aramis stirred awake, thinking he had heard a whisper. He looked around to find Athos watching him through half-open eyes. “Athos! Athos, Mon Dieu, you’re awake!” he cried out, jumping to his feet in surprise.

D’Artagnan and Porthos awakened at hearing the commotion and then instantly jumped to their feet. “Athos!” they cried together, each grabbing a hand as though to prove this wasn’t a dream.

“Madre de Dios, we fell asleep!” Aramis cried, his voice breaking. “God above, if you had left us…” he choked. “My God, if you had…” the medic couldn’t continue through the tears.

“Mmmm here… ‘Misss… not goinnng… an’where…”

“Athos, we thought we had lost you,” d’Artagnan cried. “I don’t believe it! Oh, thank God, brother, thank God!”

“Told you he was stubborn, this one,” Porthos laughed as tears streamed down his cheeks. The big man clapped his hands together and let out another roaring laugh.

“Stub… ssstubb’rn?” Athos ghosted a smile. “No, Cap’n… orders… promised… to stay with you…” The Musketeer quieted, his breath evened as his features smoothed; his head lolled to the side as he fell into a peaceful slumber.

Porthos and d’Artagnan kissed their brother’s brow in turn, thanking God for the broken fever.

“Whatever the captain told you, I’m glad you listened—you scared us, mon cher,” Aramis said as he leaned over to kiss Athos on the forehead. The medic placed his hand across his brother’s brow, taking time to relish the cooler temperature underneath his hand. “Sleep, my brother,” he smiled. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“All for one, mon cher, all for one…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Activated Charcoal has been used for medical purposes for thousands of years. Ancient Egyptian documents show the use of charcoal from about 1500 BC for the adsorption of odor from rotting wounds. Charcoal was also used for staving off infections and soaking up poisons from open wounds through a process called “adsorption.” Activated charcoal was made by burning a source of carbon (wood, debris, or coconut shells). The high temperature of the burning process removes all the oxygen and activates the gases, like steam, creating pores.
> 
> Charcoal was used in Ancient Egypt and is still being used around the world today—including as a mainstay in Chinese medicine. In 1831, a professor from the French Academy of Medicine tested its ability to absorb poison while simultaneously NOT getting absorbed by the body. Ever since, charcoal has been used on overdose patients, treating GI tract infections, toxin infections and poisonings—including alcohol poisoning. Charcoal works by binding to toxic substances in the stomach and intestines and prevents the drug or chemical from spreading throughout the body.
> 
> Hippocrates and Pliny both describe the use of charcoal to treat epilepsy, chlorosis (iron deficiency), and anthrax.
> 
> **The Nasogastric Tube:**  
>  Precursors of the stomach tube were in common usage as early as the days of Imperial Rome.  
> 3500 years ago, the ancient Greeks & Egyptians used rectal feeding tubes, enemas, to give nutrients to unconscious patients. The mixture was usually made from wine, milk, whey and wheat or barley broths; eventually, eggs and brandy was added to mix
> 
> In the 12th century, the use of esophageal tubes for feeding came about, rather than using the rectal tubes. The esophageal tube was hollow and had a bladder filled with nutrient solution attached to the end, it was then inserted into the esophagus and threaded to the stomach.
> 
> But it was in the 17th century when flexible leather tubing was used for nasogastric feeding. The leather tube was inserted in a nostril and then threaded down the esophagus and into the stomach. It was in 1628 in which the first Intravenous infusions (feeding through an IV) was recorded.
> 
> Solutions and mixtures could be administered into tubing through a ceramic kitchen funnel (1st–3rd century).


	8. Stubbornness and Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over these last two months, the Musketeers learned that while hate and vengeance was strong, love and brotherhood was stronger. Their brotherhood was a powerful bond not easily broken, not even by the forces of one so skewed, so repugnant as Jean-Marc Dubois.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have this story caught up with FF.Net, sorry about that, guys! Thanks to all readers for your kudos and comments!

**Ten Days Later:**

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Aramis exclaimed happily, as he poked his head into the sickroom.

“Of course, I’m awake,” Athos muttered.

“Excuse me, but you weren’t yesterday when we came by,” d’Artagnan corrected, entering the room after the marksman. “We stopped in after His Majesty’s lawn bowling tournament and you were sound asleep.”

“As you can see, there isn’t much else for me to do in here,” Athos retorted sharply.

“Oi, somebody’s grumpy,” Porthos quipped. 

“You would be also if you were confined to the king’s quarters with his staff constantly coming and going,” Athos grumbled with annoyance. “I can’t get a moment’s peace.”

“You _were_ sleeping very soundly yesterday, and without disturbance from anyone, not even us,” Aramis remarked amiably.

“Aramis, you _have_ to get me out of here,” Athos hissed, lowering his voice so the nurses wouldn’t hear. “I can’t stay here, not another day.” 

“Now, Athos, we know you’re tired of bein’ surrounded by His Majesty’s staff, but you’re in no shape to go ridin’ out of here,” Porthos countered.

“Pardon me, but who’s the medic?” Aramis said, smiling at his large friend. “As Porthos said, you’re in no condition to ride out of here.”

“I’m sure you can find a carriage,” Athos insisted. “I don’t care if I have to walk back to the garrison, I want out of here. I want to be back in my own room; I want to sleep in my own bed again.”

“Doctor Michel would have to approve your release, Athos,” Aramis replied, trading worried glances with his brothers. “Look, Captain Tréville is due here at the palace this afternoon for a meeting,” he reported. “Let us talk to him and see if he would agree to having you moved back to the garrison. Besides, it would make it easier for us to take care of you.”

“I do not need a motherhen.” Athos dismissed the comment. “Need I remind you, mothering is exactly what I am trying to get away from. However, I agree to wait until you speak with the captain,” he conceded, having no other choice. “Ever since the king ordered all of you back to work, I’ve had little to do but counting carved figures on the ceiling.”

“Well, watching the king cheating at lawn bowling hasn’t exactly been exciting either,” Aramis replied with a huff. “Trust me.”

“C’mon, you two,” Porthos called from the doorway. “We need to get back out there, ‘fore the king misses us and thinks we ran off with the competition,” he chuckled.

Porthos and Aramis left the room but the Gascon trailed, pausing at the doorway. “So, how many are there?” d’Artagnan asked, grinning at the confusion on his mentor’s face.

“What?” Athos asked, clearly puzzled.

“How many carved figures are on the ceiling?” d’Artagnan repeated the question. He quickly dodged the pillow tossed from his mentor and left the room. His giggles echoed down the hallway. 

Athos couldn’t help but snigger at the giggles of his younger brother, though it made his heart ache all the more. He wanted to be with his brothers, even if their assignment was merely guarding His Majesty as he bowled, but at least they were together. In his room, Athos was alone. 

“I can’t get out of here fast enough,” Athos grumbled to an empty room.

**Later:**

“The men tell me that you want to return home to the garrison,” Captain Tréville said, motioning his head to the three men behind him.

“Yes, Captain, I can heal just as well at the garrison as I can here,” Athos deadpanned.

“I do believe it is still too early for you to be moved, Athos,” Tréville argued.

“Captain, please…”

“However,” the captain interrupted, “I spoke with His Majesty and Doctor Michel about having you transferred to the garrison and they agreed,” he paused, “on the condition that you report immediately to the infirmary under Doctor Roux’s care.”

“Now, Captain…” Athos protested, but the captain stopped him with his raised hand.

“That was the agreement,” Captain Tréville said resolutely.

“As you wish, Captain,” Athos relented. “As long as I can go home, then I agree,” he said, nodding his head with relief.

“Now that the matter is settled, I do have other news,” the captain said, hesitating.

“What is it, Captain?” Aramis asked. 

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” the captain sighed heavily, glancing at the men. “I just received word from His Majesty that the body of Doctor Lacroix was found as workers were removing the rubble from his clinic.”

“Oh no!” Porthos and d’Artagnan echoed sadly.

“Damn,” Aramis cursed, as he dropped into a chair beside the bed. “Mon Dieu, this is such a terrible loss,” he lamented. “He was an excellent, highly skilled physician. I learned techniques that will help me save lives out there,” he said, pointing to the window. “Doctor Lacroix _saved_ Athos’ life with that chest tube!”

“I know, and the king is also aware of this tragic loss,” Captain Tréville replied. “His Majesty will be holding a special memorial service for Doctor Lacroix,” he said. “The doctor will be recognized and honored for his service in the army as a surgeon, and for saving the life of Athos.”

Athos lowered his head and sighed. He had been told about the incredible procedure Lacroix had performed on him to save his life. He knew he owed his life to both physicians, Lacroix and Michel, for their ingenious life-saving efforts.

“He died because of me,” Athos whispered sadly.

“No, Athos, Doctor Lacroix died because of Jean-Marc and his twisted thirst for revenge,” Captain Tréville corrected gently. “Don’t blame yourself for what you had no control over. The doctor’s death is _not_ your fault.”

“No one is responsible for Jean-Marc’s terrorism but him,” Aramis reminded Athos. “And don’t you ever forget that, my friend.”

“Don’t forget that you were a victim too, Athos,” d’Artagnan interjected. “The ones responsible for the injuries and the deaths of innocent people are now dead... as they should be.”

“Exactly,” Porthos chimed in, his voice unwavering. “Those bastards got their due justice, mon cher. Let their ending give you satisfaction, but then let the matter drop. It’s over.”

**Garrison Gates, Later:**

“Mm, it’s so good to be home,” Athos said, as the carriage pulled up to the garrison gate.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked, eyeing his brother with concern. The medic’s brow creased with worry as he noticed sweat beading across the lieutenant’s brow, and his face even paler than before their travels.

“I’m fine,” Athos lied. In reality, he felt terrible. His chest wound throbbed and his head pounded after the jarring ride. The lieutenant knew the carriage ride was a bad idea as he felt his stomach churn.

“You don’t look fine,” Porthos retorted as he watched Athos’ face turn white.

“I need some fresh air,” Athos opened the carriage door, hoping to calm his rebelling stomach.

Porthos and Aramis quickly jumped out to assist Athos from the carriage. Upon his hasty exit, the lieutenant’s foot caught and had it not been for his brothers’ quick reflexes, he would have fallen to the dusty street. 

“Alright, ‘at’s it,” Porthos declared, as he bent down to scoop Athos into his arms. “You’re going straight to the infirmary.”

“No!” Athos refused sharply. “I will not be carried into the garrison like a damn invalid,” he said. He tried to breathe through the nausea, but he couldn’t control his rebelling stomach. The lieutenant vomited, retching again and again until he was heaving only air. “My God…” he gasped.

“Athos, just slow your breathing,” Aramis quietly soothed. “Look at me, slow your breathing. You need to be mindful of those stitches in your chest,” he cautioned.

“Here, drink this,” d’Artagnan said, as he knelt beside Athos with a waterskin. “Drink as much as you need, mon ami.”

Athos took a few sips and then swished the last swallow around in his mouth before spitting it out with a grimace. “Thanks,” he whispered. He breathed slowly, resisting the pain and nausea from pulling him into the darkness. If he lost consciousness, there would no choice but for him to be carried into the infirmary. 

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asked, as he studied his friend’s pale face.

Athos nodded, though he felt drained and weak. The lieutenant remained on his knees in the dirty street, wondering how he would preserve his dignity by walking into the garrison when he barely had the strength to stand. 

“Bloody hell, Athos, if you don’t want to be carried in there, just how do you propose on gettin’ to the infirmary?” Porthos asked, standing up in frustration. 

“I’m not going to the infirmary,” Athos declared. “I’m walking to my room, though I may need help climbing the stairs.” Without asking for opinion, Athos determined to skip the infirmary and go straight to his room. It pained him to ask for help from his brothers, yet he knew he couldn’t make it without them. Even worse, he was asking his brothers to knowingly defy the captain’s orders.

“Rubbish, you’re goin’ to the infirmary,” Porthos growled. “You need a doctor, dammit!”

“No, you can’t go to your room, my friend,” Aramis said adamantly. “The captain said for you to report to Doctor Roux in the infirmary,” he paused, “as per the agreement at the palace.”

“This isn’t the palace and His Majesty isn’t here,” Athos countered. “He wouldn’t know where I convalesced unless someone told him.” 

“The captain is _not_ going to like this,” d’Artagnan warned in a low voice.

“You’re right about the king not learning where you convalesce, unless he asks, but the captain _will_ know the minute he returns,” Aramis stated, looking around nervously.

“If we get extra duty because of this,” Porthos warned in a low growl. “So help me, brother, you will owe me a month’s worth of ale!”

“Well, Porthos, you _did_ say he was stubborn,” Aramis reminded with a grin. “And he’s proving just how right you were.”

“Wait a minute,” d’Artagnan interrupted, nudging Porthos with his elbow. “Didn’t you also say Athos was bull-headed and strong-willed?”

“No, Aramis said that he was strong-willed,” Porthos corrected. “I said he was bull-headed.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos paused, “you said those things about me?” 

“We said those things when we were in a rather desperate situation,” Aramis explained, unequivocally.

“You needed the motivation, and we’re not apologizin’ for anything… except for goin’ along with this hairbrained idea,” Porthos argued. “Don’t make me regret my words back there at the palace,” he threatened, as he bit back a grin.

“You should have heard all the things they said while you were unconscious,” d’Artagnan deviously teased. “Their _true_ feelings came out when they knew you weren’t listening.” The Gascon chuckled at the shock on his brothers’ faces.

“Now hold on a minute,” Aramis quickly interjected, raising his eyebrows at the Gascon. “Don’t you believe him, Athos! We never said anything unwholesome…” 

“That isn’t exactly true,” d’Artagnan corrected.

“Really, Aramis?” Athos inquired with curiosity. “What exactly _did_ you say while I was unable to defend myself?”

“Oi, if you three don’t mind, I’d like to get this act over with before the cap’n comes back,” Porthos said anxiously, searching for their leader.

“Captain Tréville was detained at the palace,” Athos stated coolly. “By the time he returns, I will be resting comfortably in my room.” The lieutenant was anxious to get moving, fearing the captain’s early return would botch his plan to avoid the infirmary.

“Well, I highly doubt the captain would have Athos moved after seeing him resting comfortably in his own bed,” Aramis admitted with a shrug. 

“Aramis does have a point there,” d’Artagnan remarked.

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, I always say,” Aramis said, clapping Porthos on the shoulder. 

“I don’t like this,” Porthos grumbled. “You’re already hurtin’… I can see it on your face,” he said pointedly to Athos.

“Porthos is right, mon ami,” Aramis replied, returning to medic mode. “You’re already sweating, and you haven’t even started the walk toward your room. Are you sure you’ll even be able to climb those stairs?”

“I’ll figure it out when I get there,” Athos remarked tersely. Though he worried about how he would maneuver the stairs, he worried more about getting started. If they didn’t get moving, he wouldn’t make the walk across the courtyard at all in his weakened state. “We need go, now.”

“Bloody hell, this is a bad idea,” Porthos protested. “I take back the credit I gave you for bein’ stubborn!”

“Not too long ago, you were very thankful for that stubbornness,” Aramis reminded.

“Rubbish, it had its place, but now is not the time!” The large Musketeer stooped low, preparing to help Athos up.

“Just help me to my room, and I’ll go straight to bed,” Athos requested wearily. At the tired tone of voice, the three brothers exchanged wary glances but held their tongues.

“Alright, are you ready to stand up?” Aramis asked, hooking his hand underneath Athos’ arm in preparation.

“Yes, let’s get this over with,” Athos said, as he felt himself being lifted off the ground.

The men helped Athos to his feet and then gave him time to adjust as dizziness washed over him, causing him to wobble and sway. Had it not been for the strong grip on his arms, he would have toppled over.

“Let’s go,” Athos said finally, nodding. There were a few men meandering about the courtyard, but most of the regiment was away on duty, much to the relief of the group. The remaining men were overjoyed at the lieutenant’s return, but the trio warned them with stern glares to stay back.

Athos determinedly to put one foot in front of the other, while keeping his eyes focused on the staircase ahead. He was grateful for the trio’s help as his strength began to fade; he could feel the grip on his arms and his belt growing stronger as his legs grew weaker. 

By the time the group reached the stairs, Athos was utterly exhausted and soaked through with sweat. He panted through his teeth clenched tightly against the pain throbbing in his chest with every beat of his pounding heart. The proud and stubborn Musketeer finally had to admit that he lacked the strength to go on.

“I can’t… I can’t…” Athos panted. He squeezed his eyes shut as sweat streamed from his brow and blurred his vision; he wiped his eyes dry, only to have more stinging drops add to his misery. His strength was gone, yet his body remained upright as his weight was completely supported by his brothers around him.

“How are we going to get him up the stairs without it being _very_ obvious what we are doing?” d’Artagnan hissed into Aramis’ ear. “You know this is only going to make his condition worse!”

“That’s it, dammit!” Porthos declared, having run out of patience. The large Musketeer scooped Athos into his arms and carried him up the stairs, caring little about the stares of surprise from fellow Musketeers in the courtyard. 

Aramis rushed to open the door and then stood back, allowing Porthos room to get by. D’Artagnan quickly closed the door behind them, shutting out all the curious stares.

“I knew this was a bad idea, mon cher, but you didn’t have to prove it to me,” Aramis said, as he began unbuttoning the leather doublet. “All that exertion couldn’t have been good on your chest wound—which is still healing by the way.”

“Don’t… don’t say… say it,” Athos gasped for air. The Musketeer slumped backward but strong hands held him upright as they continued undressing him. Setting his weapons and accoutrements on the table, Porthos and d’Artagnan pulled off the boots while the medic removed the doublet. 

“No, I _will_ say it, dammit, Athos,” Aramis scolded, as he set aside the leather jacket. “I told you so!” The medic pulled apart the sweat-drenched shirt to examine the chest wound; he removed the bandage then let out a relieved breath at seeing no blood. “It appears the stitches held—and you better be grateful that they did—because I was going to have Porthos carry you right down to the infirmary if I saw even _one_ droplet of blood!”

“Grateful… for your fine… stitching,” Athos said weakly, his eyes drooping closed.

“This isn’t my stitch work in your chest,” Aramis corrected, his voice soft. “The credit belongs to Doctor Lacroix mostly, but Doctor Michel closed you up once he removed the drainage tube. They both did very fine work… and then you want to reverse all your progress because of your damned pride!”

“Easy now, mon cher,” Porthos said, calming the medic’s temper. “There’ll be plenty time for scoldin’ later, but right now we need to get ‘im bathed then changed into fresh clothes.”

“I’ll go get some water and towels,” d’Artagnan offered. “I’ll stop by the kitchen to ask Serge to bring something up later. Looks like it’s going to be another long night.”

**Later:**

“What do you mean, Athos isn’t here in the infirmary?” Captain Tréville shouted at the regiment physician. “Just where in God’s name are…” the captain stopped short as he realized where his lieutenant and three missing men were located.

The captain climbed the stairs to Athos’ room intending to give the group a scathing lecture on deliberately disobeying his orders, but as soon as he opened the door and spotted the pale, still figure on the bed, his anger left him. 

“My God, what happened?” the captain asked, his jaw dropping open with surprise.

“Captain, he knows what he did was foolish, and so do we for going along with it,” Aramis sighed. “Please, save it for now and let him rest. We’ll stay and keep an eye on him tonight.”

“Aramis,” Captain Tréville started, but decided it could wait. “Dammit Athos, why did you do this to yourself?” The captain anxiously rubbed a hand down his face as he stared at the pale face, glistening with sweat. “What happened to him?”

“He exerted himself to near exhaustion, but he didn’t tear any stitches or cause any permanent harm,” Aramis reassured the captain. “Rest is what he needs now.”

“Fine, just take care of him,” the captain instructed Aramis. “I’ll be back _with_ the doctor in the morning,” Tréville sighed. “See that he recovers.”

“Yes, sir,” Aramis replied, nodding with relief.

“Thank you, Captain,” the three men said gratefully.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet, gentlemen,” the captain replied firmly. “After I give you the time necessary to help Athos, you will be reporting for duty at the stables… where you will be helping Jacques clean the stalls, fix the broken beams, shoe the horses, shine the saddles…”

“Aw, Captain,” the men groaned. 

“… shovel the waste, wash and brush the horses, gather food and water…” Tréville continued listing the chores he had planned for the trio as he left the room. He smiled as he stood outside the closed the door, listening to Porthos growl with complaints.

“I told you what would happen if we got extra duty ‘cause of this!” Porthos grumbled unhappily. “Oi, Athos is goin’ to owe us.”

“Those boys will be the death of me yet,” the captain said, as he walked to his office and shut the world out for the evening.

**EPILOGUE:**

It was a lovely morning; the air was warm and pleasant for early autumn. Dust from the dry garrison courtyard swirled on the breeze as dozens of Musketeers dueled in a regimental sparring match. The declared winner from each match was paired with another winner, until the pool of participants was whittled down to two in the ultimate match for _Best Swordsman of the Garrison._

The Musketeers took advantage by having the tournament during a time in which the finest swordsman in France would be unable to participate, as per medical restrictions. Without Athos, even the most mediocre swordsman had a shot at advancing, though it was all in fun and there was no dishonor in losing. Captain Tréville applauded the competition, as it brought out the best skills in every participant. 

While it had been almost two months since the near-fatal shooting, Athos still had not been cleared for unrestricted duty. The lieutenant was relegated to watching the match on the sidelines, much to the relief of most participants.

“You need to pay attention to your footwork,” Athos called out to d’Artagnan. “He’s anticipating your moves by watching the direction of your feet,” the lieutenant instructed as he watched the dueling pair. 

“Hush, Athos, you’re not supposed to be helping the enemy!” the medic teased. Aramis whirled, easily parrying the strike of his opponent. Again, the medic sidestepped an attack but then pivoted on his heels to swing around the Gascon, catching the younger man off-guard; he finished the match with his sword at d’Artagnan’s throat. “Match over, you’re dead!” he declared with a snicker. 

“That leaves you ‘n me, brother,” Porthos said with exuberance. The large Musketeer stood ready, “En garde.”

“I think the winner of this match should duel Athos,” Aramis said, attempting to distract the larger man. 

“We could but…” Porthos replied, momentarily letting his guard down.

Aramis took advantage by swinging his blade left of his opponent and then pivoting to the same side, only to be blocked with the _crashing_ of steel on steel. “You do realize that I’m not _really_ your enemy, mon ami,” the medic said through clenched teeth.

“Rubbish, I thought this was a match to the death,” Porthos retorted with a hearty laugh. “I say we include Athos in our match,” he said, as he parried a clever strike from his opponent. “I could take on both of you at the same time.”

“Any one of us could take on Athos,” Aramis taunted. The medic lunged with an attack, but was blocked with another crashing of blades. “We can take advantage of his disadvantaged condition.” 

“Really, Aramis?” Athos drawled, rolling his eyes.

“What a wonderful idea, Aramis!” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “For once, I could actually best my mentor!”

“Oi, with one arm tied behind your back!” Porthos added, laughing heartedly.

“Now, you’re pushing it,” Athos said, glaring at his brothers. 

“Ah, come on, Athos, let us relish the thought of beating you.” Aramis danced around Porthos, striking and lunging as their swords gleamed in the sun. “Let us revel in the fleche attack that has our blades at your chest, beating the best swordsman in France—with one hand tied behind our back,” he added before folding over with laughter.

“And now you’re dead!” Porthos announced, holding his sword to the medic’s back. “I win,” he laughed with delight. “I am the best swordsman in the regiment. You ‘ave been replaced, Athos,” he said, clapping the lieutenant on the shoulder.

“I work with a group of children,” Athos remarked wrly. The lieutenant lowered his head, allowing the brim of his hat to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Well done, though I hardly believe it was a fair triumph,” he said, lifting his head.

“That’s right,” Aramis agreed. “You took advantage when I was having a conversation with Athos.”

“Rubbish, I won fair ‘n square!” Porthos countered. “You made yourself vulnerable, so I took advantage… as any good Musketeer would do,” he clapped in celebration.

“You wound me, brother,” Aramis said to Porthos, holding his hand over his heart. “I thought I could count on you; I thought you had my back.”

“I did ‘ave your back… least my sword did,” Porthos responded whimsically. “That’s why I won, mon cher.”

The group of three burst out in laughter as Athos watched. He couldn’t help but smile as his closest friends laughed at the gentle ribbing they gave each other. The brothers enjoyed this moment of togetherness, as though old times had returned to the garrison. 

The last two months had been physically hard on Athos, but he knew the emotional suffering endured by his brothers was every bit as difficult, if not worse. 

Athos knew well the burden that had weighed so heavily on his brothers’ hearts; he understood the emotional anguish of waiting for him to take his final breath. He thought he heard voices—as though calling out to him through a thick, heavy fog—pleading for him to stay and fight. 

The lieutenant wanted to continue on his way and be free of the crushing pain in his chest. But then he heard the question of what would they do without him… and he froze in his tracks. 

Would he dare be so selfish to walk away, even while hearing their pleas and cries for him to stay? 

He remembered the captain imploring him to stay, ordering him to fight as a soldier… as a Musketeer. Long ago, Athos had given up his title of nobility, but he never gave up his sense of duty and honor. 

Athos heard the captain's command to stay and fight. With the exception of the captain’s order to report to the infirmary, the lieutenant was duty-bound to obey his superior officer. How could he disobey Captain Tréville at such a time?

Though his pain was difficult to bear, and he wished for sweet relief from such agony, Athos knew the suffering would be hardest on those he left behind. His own pain was just temporary, but his brothers’ pain would be permanent, enduring for the rest of their lives. 

Looking at his brothers, as they laughed together, it was as though the last two months had never happened. Today, it was all about enjoying the carefree days of light duty, good friendship and brotherhood under the watchful, but proud, gaze of Captain Tréville.

Athos was glad he had decided to fight. He was proud to be a part of this camaraderie; this special bond; this brotherhood of Musketeers. When it would have been easier to give up and just slip away, he was glad he fought like a soldier and stayed.

Fin

**An Extra Glimpse:**

“Where are we going?” Athos asked impatiently, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. The Musketeer still felt an occasional twinge nipping at his chest, but pain wasn’t what bothered him. When Aramis had insisted that they go on a ride without disclosing a reason, he knew the medic had a secret scheme.

“A cemetery, Aramis?” Athos asked, as the group finally arrived at the gates of the resting place, dotted with gravestones. “What purpose would you have in bringing me to a cemetery?”

“Now, come with me and you’ll see why,” Aramis explained, as he dismounted. “Please, just trust me.”

“Do you want us to wait?” Porthos whispered, as he leaned over in his saddle.

“Yes, stay here,” Aramis answered. “I’ll be right back.” The medic waited for Athos to dismount and then motioned his hand toward the cemetery gates. “Follow me,” he instructed.

The marksman led the wary lieutenant past the many stones to a more recent grave, where the dirt was only beginning to settle on the surface. Aramis smiled at the bouquets of flowers decorating the grave, thankful the departed had not been forgotten.

“And who is this?” Athos asked, without looking at the name. “Why would you bring me here?”

“Athos, look at the name,” Aramis whispered softly. “I thought it was time that you finally met,” the medic said, watching as Athos’ eyes widened at the name etched in stone.

 ****

 **Alexandre Lacroix**

  
**

Soldier

**  
**

Physician

**  
**

Healer

**

“But why…?” Athos asked, his voice drifting away on the breeze.

“I figured you might have some things you’d like to say to him,” Aramis said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “Take all the time you need,” he added, “we’ll be right outside the gates, waiting for you.” 

Aramis stayed a moment beside his brother before turning away. He stopped to glance over his shoulder, pausing as Athos removed his hat and then kneeled beside the grave. 

“Talk to him Athos, let him help you… one last time,” Aramis whispered, as he walked away.

~§~

“Are you sure bringing Athos here was such a good idea?” d’Artagnan asked. The Gascon exchanged worried glances with Porthos as he noticed the medic’s quiet, solemn mood upon returning.

“Yes I do,” Aramis replied. His gaze wandered back toward the grave where he hoped his friend would find resolution and healing. “Athos has healed physically, but inside he’s still hurting.”

“If anyone can help him, it’s the good doctor,” Aramis continued quietly. “I think talking to Lacroix will help ease his self-reproach, though guilt is a burden our brother had no cause to bear. I think Athos can come to an understanding here. He can begin healing.”

“But we brought ‘im to the doctor’s grave,” Porthos said regretfully. “How will this ease his guilt?”

“It’s closure, Porthos,” Aramis said with resolve. “I think closure is exactly what the good doctor would have prescribed. It’s stitching up an old, open wound. It’s putting these last two months to rest, then leaving the cemetery ready to live again.”

The men grew quiet as they sat on the grassy hillside, mulling over the words still fresh in their ears. The Musketeers knew that the death of Athos would have permanently altered their circle of brotherhood. Yes, they would have gone on with their lives, but with an irreparable chasm ever present in their hearts. 

But over these last two months, the Musketeers learned that while hate and vengeance was strong, love and brotherhood was stronger. Their brotherhood was a powerful bond not easily broken, not even by the forces of one so skewed, so repugnant as Jean-Marc Dubois. 

_Loved extinguished hate._  
_Strength overpowered weakness._  
_Unity repaired division._  
_Hope and life won out over fear and destruction._

One brother’s physical and emotional struggle linked the four Musketeers as family. Aramis snorted with a huff of satisfaction and couldn’t help but smile. Their strength had brought Athos though death’s valley. 

Athos had fought to survive… and survive he did!

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every one of you for your support of this story! There were times when this story was a genuine struggle to trudge through, but we finished together.
> 
> I cannot say when I'll be back with another story, as I am quite unsure at this point. While writing for the leather-clad Musketeers was a fun distraction, I must get back to my original work. I would love to do a celebratory story as an update to those who have remained so loyal to my work. So, as soon as I have good news to report (staying postive here) I'll be back with a new story.
> 
> Until then,
> 
> God bless and take care!
> 
> LaDene (Buckeye01)


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